


The Church of Saint Andrew

by hillbillied



Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - American Revolution, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, American Civil War, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Curse Breaking, Drama & Romance, Established Relationship, French Indian War, Idiots in Love, Immortality, M/M, Major Character Injury, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rating May Change, Religious Conflict, Revolutionary War, Self-Esteem Issues, Suicide Attempt, War of 1812
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:40:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 79,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26959696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hillbillied/pseuds/hillbillied
Summary: Eddie's immortal. Unfortunately, Andy's reincarnations are not.
Relationships: Andrew A. "Ack-Ack" Haldane/Edward "Hillbilly" Jones, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 36
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

Church of Saint Andrew _(MA)_   
**Information Guide**

**Introduction:**

The Church of Saint Andrew stands about 40 miles outside Lawrence, Massachusetts. Constructed shortly after the turn of the 18th century (1718), it is one of the state’s oldest standing churches.

The building has seen extensive repairs and restorations over the last 3 centuries, with little of its original structure still present in what can be seen today. Nevertheless, its foundations endure, with at least one of its lower walls maintaining the original stonework from the 1700s. This, along with several low exterior walls enclosing the churchyard, are a testament to the work of some of the country’s earliest European constructors.

**Colonial and Modern History:**

As Lawrence had yet to be founded (1847-1853), the church spent its early years officially part of Andover. The local area saw European settlements as early as 1655. These colonists would have built outside of their enclosed townships for multiple reasons, including the plenitude of land space, extensions of Christian outreach to native populations, and use of hilltops as defendable vantage points.

The Church of Saint Andrew remains isolated to this day due to this positioning, though it is now easily accessible by road. It stopped seeing active services in the early 1900s, falling into disrepair until its purchase by Lawrence City Council in 1978 for restoration and preservation. It has been under the care of the Lawrence Historical Society since 1999 and continues to serve as an educational building, including a museum erected within, with resident site warden and tour guide.

It is unknown why the church’s namesake contains references to Saint Andrew, considering the inhabitants at the time of its construction where predominantly protestants, particularly puritans. The church was used by local denominations during its active years and has never seen catholic services, despite its name.

**The Lonely Headstone:**

The Church of Saint Andrew never contained a graveyard, possibly due to its remote location. There are no records of any internment taking place in its grounds. No evidence exists in the surrounding soil that bodies were ever buried here. These facts have only added to the local mystery regarding the grave site some 200 yards from the building.

The slightly crooked headstone, sheltered by the treeline that hugs the church’s exterior land, is consistent with those created in the early 18th century. Testing at the site dates the placement of the headstone between 1770 and 1790, providing evidence that the burial does not predate the construction of the church itself.

This application of modern dating is not consistent with the date marked on the stone, though this is understood to be an act of replacement. Any original wooden marker would not have survived to be seen today, the working theory being that this was replaced at a later date by the current stone alternative. However, the large gap between marked death date and replacement of the headstone remains mysterious in itself.

In the case of the Church of Saint Andrew’s burial, a minimum of 52 years passed before the current headstone was erected. (Using conservative estimate of its placement date, 1770.) Considering all the factors at work, this pause for replacement has puzzled many historians and visitors alike. The average life expectancy of the era (about 35 years), the cost of stone to the average colonist (wooden grave markers were common and popular), the remote location, and the lack of burial record have left the mystery of the grave to become shrouded in local legend.

This curiosity provides the Lawrence Historical Society (current holders of the church site) with an enticing mystery that visitors are free to speculate upon during their tours of the area.

Since the remains below have no doubt long since ceased to exist, no disinterment of the grave has been attempted. Speculation on its occupant must rely instead on the words carved into the headstone:

_Andrew Haldane  
Departed this life 1718  
in his 27th Year of Age  
Our War Worthwhile  
Our Cause Just_

* * *

**_1718._ ** _  
Province of Massachusetts Bay, British America._

The original roof was wood. Edward knew because he put it there.

Just as he built the low stone walls of the churchyard, the beams that upheld the building, the neatly constructed steeple. Almost a year’s work in total. Hammering those pegs in, one after another, to secure tile after tile. The tap, tap, tap of his tools echoed just beyond the treeline.

He could see for miles up here, reach the Heavens if he stretched. On the rooftop of the Lord’s house, planted on the peak of their new world’s hill.

It’d be boring work were he not blessed with company.

Andrew’s fingers laid flat the last of the panels, holding them steady. His hands were calloused; he’d been helping every day. There wasn’t any need, the request for building assistance was merely a ruse. Yet Andrew demanded to help anyway. He had a tendency toward such acts of kindness. It would kill him one day, easier than the flintlock pistol shoved down the back of Edward’s breeches. For protection, up on that deserted hill so far from town.

Right now though, they could enjoy the sun together, laying the finishing tiles to the roof of their town’s new church.

“I believe Sarah’s made a cuckold of me.” Andrew muttered.

No such words should bring a smile to a man’s lips, nor a laugh to his company. Both of them smirked regardless, failing to hold their features at bay. So much for courting her, then.

“Is that so?” Edward asked around the peg between his teeth.

“Well, she’s with child.” Andrew replied.

The peg was spat sharply from the taller man’s mouth, clinking against the panels as it bounced merrily way.

“Well, I know _you_ didn’t manage that!” Edward cried, not a hint of malice between the laughter he couldn’t stifle. His company laughed with him, finding it impossible to remain serious against the absurdity of their situation.

“So long as we all pretend otherwise,” Andrew sighed around his smile, his soft Scots accent making honey of his words, “I make no complaint.”

He never complained about anything.

_‘If’_ was a loathsome word that Edward refused to covet.

Because if they hadn’t finished the roof that evening, if they hadn’t been flush with pride at their work, if they hadn’t been comfortable in their reckless youth, then their story would have been different. And much, much shorter.

Andrew wouldn’t have let his hand linger on Edward’s shoulder as the taller man descended the ladder, promising to return in a moment with some water and bread. (They were going to watch the sunset together from the roof.) He wouldn’t have received those fingers on his cheek, those lips against his own, kissing him in the fading daylight without remorse. He wouldn’t have pulled back and looked lovingly into Andrew’s eyes, catching the adoration reflected that he felt he could never deserve.

He wouldn’t have lent in for a second kiss.

‘If’ was not reality. Edward experienced events exactly such.

He walked to the well some ways away, descending the slope through the long grass. He splashed his face from the bucket he pulled and attempted to quell his heated smile. He carried the pail with a tight grip, excited by the sweet knowledge he could enjoy every inch of his lover freely out here.

On this hill where he had built a church, with his own hands and Andrew’s beside them.

There were two figures on the roof when he approached that evening. He’d been gone only a short while, a moment in his mind. Long enough for the town pastor to return, climbing up the hill from the opposite direction. With his puritan robes and his big hat. Looking for progress on his new building, presumedly, and instead getting an eyeful of their sin.

Andrew was a diplomat at heart and his pleas for understanding could be heard from down below. Firm, brave, even when he had no true defence for his actions. The shoes of his era were leather and lacked traction; his leg slipped, and he stumbled. He caught himself, straightening up as he continued to back away from the sneering man of God. Demanding explanation, distracting them both from their precarious situation.

Andrew didn’t catch himself the second time.

Edward watched from below, his pace slowed to a crawl in squinting confusion. The scene registered too late and he made no move to catch the man that slid on their freshly laid tiles. (Perhaps, if he’d placed the tiles differently, things would have been different.) A single fateful loss of grip and Andrew tumbled from the church roof. His yell was short and dignified. He fell like a brave man.

He hit the ground hard. Edward’s pail dropped with him.

Water seeped into the dirt they had combed together, building a neat path up to the building’s entrance. It ran away from the scene, afraid as it pooled into the grass. Its path was mirrored in the blood around Andrew’s head, the halo that adorned his broken skull.

Looking down from above, his shattered pose might have seemed macabrely beautiful. From the earth, no such beauty could be found.

Wet and matted hair was cradled in shaking hands, Edward snatching up his love’s head and drawing it into a deathly grip. His fingers ran red and his scream was unrelenting. It clawed at his throat until he was hoarse. His fist gripped Andrew’s shirt, scrabbling for the rise and fall of a chest he knew had left. Left without a word, disappearing on a warm evening breeze.

With Andrew’s body in his arms, Edward knelt in the shadow of their finished church, the steeple they had carved darkening the bloody path to black.

If he could have seen the future, he would have wept harder.

The soul was immortal but the body finite. This was the word of God, he was told.

Edward Jones felt the moment his soul fused with his heaving, wretched body. Not that he knew, in the exact moment, what’d transpired. He merely felt the rush of blood in his ears, the warmth splattered across his chest, the damp substance staining his fingers. He knew the pleasure that consumed him, without even a trace of a smile on his lips.

He beat the pastor to death in front of that church they built.

Sliding down the ladder, the man’s escape attempt had made it to the stone wall. There, his attacker caught up to him and he met his end. The rocky brickwork bled where Edward slammed his face against it repeatedly.

When the gurgling became only reflex noise and no longer a desperate failed plea, the culprit felt something had changed. Something beyond the sensation of a human life extinguished by his hand.

Andrew Haldane was buried at dawn, beneath a rising sun.

Yellow rays cut between the trees, splaying a fan of gold over proceedings. His body would be placed in its final resting place with all ceremony, all respect. Edward made sure of it. He had worked tirelessly through the night, lamplight guiding his frantic and tearful sawing.

He had built a coffin before. None had been as heavy as this.

His hands bled from the work and he understood the irony. Blisters erupted where he dug without rest, the grave not deep enough to satisfy his standards. The sun prevented any further luxury, tapping him on the shoulder as it ascended. He squinted through the trees, bleary eyed, and saw the dawn. There was no more time to spare.

This depth would have to do, nowhere near six feet.

This was an end he never imagined, patting down the earth over the grave. It had to be perfectly flat, something inside him cried. As if that could absolve him of his recklessness, of his wrath, of that single moment he left Andrew alone.

Edward drove a wooden cross into the earth and hammered it down with his tools. The symbol of the Lord to show the world one of them was already in Heaven. The name on it was messily carved, two words and a date were all he could manage.

‘Andrew Haldane’ and ‘1718’.

Chest heaving with exhaustion and anguish, the man ran a hand through his hair. He fell to his knees once more, unable to sanctify the soil with his tears. They were all dried up, he had no more to give. His grief remained an unspeakable ache in his throat, causing him to cough and gasp for air.

He looked to the dirt with an agonised expression and reached out, digging his nails into the soil. He shook his head.

“What do y’ want me t’ say?” He asked.

Andrew gave him only silence. Below the earth, he laid with hands folded peacefully atop his stomach, flowers between his fingers and eyes closed. His slumber was undisturbed by the question. A red halo remained in the stickiness of his blond hair, brushed neatly behind his ears by dirty, loving hands.

“Why did you come up here w’ me?” Edward accused desperately, torment biting his words.

He begged for an answer, hoping harsh questions might provide. Might stir the sleeping Andrew to action. They didn’t. The dead held all the secrets and were notoriously good at keeping them.

Edward’s eyes slipped shut and he felt his chest fall shakily.

“Y’ deserve better than this.” He whispered. Despite being unable to provide more, he was convinced he had failed. “I know where you are now, you’ll receive it.”

His eyes drifted upward from the soil. To the mark of the cross, an ugly wooden figure. His gaze turned sour, lip curling in disgust. The symbol of the Lord stood, mocking him. It drove Andrew to silence; Edward blamed it for his hearing no reply.

There would be no repentance on his part. He didn’t need to say that out loud.

Eventually, he rose from his knees at Andrew’s grave. Took the flintlock from where it rested against his spine, held there by his breeches. He’d left his hat inside the church somewhere. For some reason, he decided to pull the cord from his shirt, loosening his collar. It was a ritual he didn’t understand. Not that he needed to, he wouldn’t be around to study it further.

Back against the nearest tree trunk, Edward sat and loaded his weapon with disinterest. It felt lighter in his hand than it ever had. Never had he handled it with such a lack of care. (It had been Andrew’s father’s once.)

Hidden from the sun’s light, everything that he knew and had ever known danced behind his eyes.

His childhood in the Colony of Virginia, the squat home he’d found no love within. His bastard of a father, his coward of a mother. (Two fools looking to escape Ulster for a new life and finding only misery.) The faces of all five of his younger siblings, one of them just a baby, when he shouldered his precious few belongings and left. Walked and walked and walked some more, looking for somewhere – _anywhere_ – that wasn’t his birthplace.

He remembered his difficult journey, every painful step before his arrival in a settlement within the borders of Andover. Tired, dragging his feet, looking a greater state than usual. Scraping by on odd jobs across province after province. Stumbling into the first shop he thought might have some work for him, not checking the wooden sign that swung above the door. He was ready to beg for food if need be.

He hadn’t needed to; Andrew Haldane had stood behind the counter.

“Let me help you.” He’d said.

To a stranger in the store he’d inherited from his father. ‘ _Let me help you’_.

Edward blinked away the smiles he remembered, the many years they’d spent together since that day. Those precious moments stung more than the hardship.

He could see the sunlight on that blond hair still. Watching quietly as the man stitched his battered breeches on frequent occasions, teasing him over every repeated rip and tear. The smell of soap when they’d drawn baths to share, ‘to reduce expenses’ he’d so helpfully pretended. Those careful fingers, running over the pages of a much-coveted book of French; practicing the foreign words clumsily when they were alone together, ignoring that one of them couldn’t even read English. The strength of those arms around Edward’s waist when he ran home to the man, exalted by money in his hand and work he prided himself in.

The warmth of Andrew’s skin on his after their first kiss, their first tentative touching of each other’s bodies by flickering candlelight.

The hammer snapped loudly, drawn back in preparation to fire.

Edward considered it for a moment, staring at the pistol in his hands. It was heavier than before, suddenly weighty and difficult to pull up to his head. He wouldn’t acknowledge the tremor in his hands. Cowardice ran in his family.

One final sin for the road.

He wouldn’t be seeing Andrew again, unfortunately. Their paths weren’t bound to cross in death.

The muzzle against his temple, Edward drew a sharp, painful breath. He pulled the trigger and the hammer came down.

How many coincidences did it take to make a fact?

One misfire was the powder’s fault. Two misfires might be the flintlock. A third must be the man pulling the trigger.

He headed back to Virginia. Onwards, to the Shenandoah Valley.

He felt he had to, after failing so entirely to put a pistol ball through his head. Seven shots he’d loaded and every one failed to fire. He’d retrieved fresh powder and tried another three times. Same result, ten trials and each of them left him miserably defeated. Such a complete disgrace left him dejected in a way he found indescribable.

What kind of man couldn’t even end his own life?

He embraced his cowardice in the moment he’d thrown the flintlock to the ground, roaring with the same anger that had consumed him before. His curses were sent directly skyward and he pointed a finger to the clouds. He swore he would be dead by the month’s end or so help him, Heaven’s gates were getting bent into fire pokers and shoved directly up Saint Peter’s ass. Crude, he was aware.

Perhaps he could placate God instead.

He’d buried the priest and cleaned the stones. In a ditch, mind, with an unnamed and crooked wooden cross. Good enough, he didn’t care for the bastard. He’d cleaned up the church, nailed the final sign above the door. They were supposed to do that together, him and Andrew, in the morning after the roof’s completion. Instead, he’d buried his love in a shallow grave.

Edward snapped the original sign over his knee. The name didn’t suit anymore. He’d made a new sign, a better sign.

‘The Church of Saint Andrew’ it read.

Not the most protestant of words, he was aware. Let them hang him for it, along with all the rest. Then he left, shouldered a cloth sack of his belongings and stolen money from his victim.

He forgot to bring his hat.

The law never caught up to him.

He settled as far into the mountains as he could, which was always moving further. He travelled with the border, westwards always, wherever work and lack of company lead him. He didn’t want to be near townships and congregations. Anywhere with a church looming over its neighbourhood left him itching to move away.

Every year was gruelling, slow, yet they passed him by without consideration.

The first eighteen months, he tried again and again to fire that pistol into his head. Once a day, then once a week, then once a month. Until he realised he was driving himself destitute, buying all the balls and powder.

Every single shot was a misfire.

**_~~1718~~. 1750._ ** _  
~~Province of Massachusetts Bay~~. Province of Virginia, British America._

By 1742, Edward had settled himself in a cabin on a patch of land nobody was laying claim to. (Nobody who mattered, anyway.) This was the outskirts of Virginia territory, amongst the Appalachian Mountains. It was a harsh land but it kept him occupied. His cabin was small but comfortable. He was a builder by trade, after all.

Skills that almost fucked him over in the long run. Learning to trap instead of just kill when it came to wildlife was a difficult transition. He got the hang of it.

‘Builder’ became ‘trapper’ eventually.

And all the while, he watched the dirt road get busier and busier. Strangers that passed his door, buyers looking for furs and horseshoes, always had interesting news for him. Something about a fort in Nova Scotia, where the fuck was that? New regulations on molasses and wool from across the ocean. Fascinating, long live the King. Some Shawnee moving up to Ohio which frankly, Edward was fine with. One less worry for him.

Somehow, the topic would always move to his work, then his experience. He’d say he’d been working for some time, since he was a boy and could lift a hammer.

“I was born in 1691.” Edward would say.

His strangers would throw their heads back in laughter. There was no way he was almost sixty.

Chewing on his tobacco that evening, Edward found himself lost in the thought of it. He stared out through the trees, to the road that wasn’t there when he’d arrived. His cabin offered him no rest, his eyes transfixed until dawn.

There was a distinct twisting in his gut that he couldn’t shake.

He would have to ask the next stranger for confirmation, that it really was 1750.

The next stranger to approach his door needed his horse’s shoes tended to.

Edward glimpsed him coming, glancing up from his washbasin. He looked no deeper than the heavy riding boots, the clean breeches, the humble but neatly trimmed frock coat. It would be a lie to say the thought of robbing this stranger didn’t cross the trapper’s mind. It was a sin to lie.

No, he only picked up a cloth, dried his face and hands. He had no need to put on a waistcoat; his nightshirt and just-about pulled up breeches would do. Should the tally marks in the woodwork of his wall be believed, it had been thirty-two years since he was last intimate with another human being.

That was a long time to not give a shit. Standards had slipped.

Edward waited for the knock – a polite, unurgent tap – before pulling back the door.

“What can I do f-” Looking up, his words grinded to a halt.

He fell deathly silent, the cloth in his hands slipping to the floor. The stranger on his doorstep was smiling, tricorn in hand and eyes humbly expectant. That smile began to slip gradually, a frown flickering across the man’s features as he grew concerned with the tense quiet.

“Andrew…” Edward breathed.

His whisper was barely vocalised, riding on his exhale as he felt his knees threaten to buckle. The man on his porch, with his hint of stubble and dirty-blond locks, presented the spitting image of the love he’d buried on that hill. Every inch immaculate and perfect, strong jaw line clenching in familiar concern and strong hands tightening on his hat.

The only difference was his eyes, showing not even a glimmer of recognition.

This stranger didn’t know him.

“Pardon?” The man asked, leaning forward as he failed to catch the murmured name.

“I-” His voice sinking to a soft and painful mutter, Edward swallowed and reconsidered his mistake.

He paused and this man, this _stranger_ who looked exactly like his precious, darling Andrew leant in expectantly. The quiet allowed for a steadying breath. An inhale, exhale, and acceptance of coincidence. Of mistaken identity, of a passing recognition, of something he refused to acknowledge.

The ghost of a smile took the taller man’s features.

“Let me help you.” He said.

He fixed that stranger’s horseshoes, and the dent in his stirrups. He led the animal to a trough, filled generously, along with shelter and some feed. Then he refilled the man’s waterskin, offered him dried fish and some fancy cheese a lost Frenchman had traded for directions. Wrapped these generous treats in a cloth and tied it neatly in a bow.

All the while never revealing the reason for his unusual kindness, the softness behind his eyes.

His visitor was beyond gracious. He thanked every gesture, desperately waved his hands and begged to be dismissed from such compassion. His hat never returned to his head, never hiding those familiar blond locks. He asked permission to cross the threshold of the cabin.

He was just like Andrew.

“I haven’t much company out here.” Edward laughed, washing his hands in his basin, “If you’d like supper before settin’ off, I can provide.”

A glance out the window revealed it was getting dark. The man would have to stay the night at this rate.

“I think,” The stranger confided, and Edward waited for polite rejection, “I’d be amendable to that.”

They ate the dried fish and cheese from the Frenchman. Edward assured he would refill the man’s sack for his return journey. He was from somewhere near Boston, but had a homestead in Virginia. He was also the new lieutenant of the recently named Greenbrier county. The county they currently sat in, apparently.

“Y’ here t’ call me up.” Edward chuckled, sucking each of his fingers. Food was not for wasting. “Is that not so, Lieutenant?”

“While it’s my job to ensure every man undertakes his monthly training,” The stranger said, taking a healthy swig from his cup, “I have no intention of pressganging you, sir.”

That had the taller of the pair laughing into his Black Strap, rolling another gulp over his tongue. This man’s voice was so soothingly familiar, lulling him into a daydream he never wanted to end. A fantasy where him and Andrew could have enjoyed another meal together like this.

The stranger hummed, sucking his fingers similarly after scraping his plate. He’d been hungry, thirsty too, yet never let on.

“Particularly after such grateful hospitality-” He said, meaning to continue. He had to stop and huff with disappointment, “Oh, I haven’t even told you my name. My apologies.”

Edward grunted. “None necessary, Lieutenant.”

The stranger was unwavering. He looked up to ensure he met his host’s eyes.

“I’m Andrew Haldane.” He said.

The rum and molasses sweetening Edward’s cup splattered the table, slipping from his hand as he choked on the contents. The dark liquid soaked his carved bowl, dripping onto his breeches. He slid away from the table with a cuss, retreating to the basin stood by the window.

He needed the distance, placing a physical gap between him and the other man. He turned his back, scrubbing at his hands and snatching up the cloth. Hoping desperately that the panic that he forced from his features would subside.

He returned to the table. Andrew had already reset everything in order. Together, they mopped up the spillage.

“And yourself?” The blond asked as they worked.

Edward could only grunt in response. “What?”

Andrew smiled. “Your name.” He said, “What do I call you, sir?”

Oh, how good it felt to gaze into those eyes again. Their hands brushed, leant over their meal together. No frantic recoil, only acceptance of the touch, left the taller man’s chest fluttering.

“Edward.” He said yearningly, “Edward Jones.”

They drank and watched the stars and drank some more. Edward led the man’s horse to his drying shack, set its saddle down and allowed the animal to rest. He returned inside and lit the lamps as a slouching lieutenant watched him from the table.

One bed left the cabin’s owner to sloppily throw a blanket over the floor. (It would be worth the ache in the morning for the pleasure of this fantastic evening.)

“I hope you don’t intend to lend me your bed, Mr. Jones.” Andrew said, eyes now in the bottom of his cup.

“I _intend_ t’ do right by my guest.” Edward replied.

“You are far too kind.” Came the soft response, stirring with liquid confidence, “Treating me finer than any man’s wife.”

A laugh bubbled from the depths of the taller’s throat. He folded an extra shawl, tossing it down for a pillow.

“Not much female company up here.” He admitted. He omitted his lack of need for such.

Andrew tilted his head, gazing his way with narrowed eyes and a sloppy smile.

“Perhaps I should reconsider my position,” He claimed, “And move out to the frontier.”

They had had this conversation before, him and Andrew. It had involved alcohol back then, too. Though, in those days, they’d had to wrestle with several failed attempts, since Edward hadn’t the vocabulary at the time to understand he was being propositioned.

It had been some years since then. Thirty-odd, in fact.

He was ready this time. They could skip the ring around. The question of why he didn’t want female company, jokes about whether his theoretical wife was a nag, the possibility of losing the game and having them both retreat, fearing discovery.

Hindsight – and a fair amount of rum – gave Edward the confidence to do as he pleased. As they both really wanted, approaching his company and resting a hand on the table beside him. Running eyes over his shirt and loose cravat, his frockcoat having retreated to the back of his chair. Lingering on his breeches for a moment before leaning forward so he could speak directly and succinctly, an inch from the other man’s face.

Andrew had the good graces to look somewhat terrified beside his drunken excitement.

“Perhaps you should look f’ more _amendable_ company.” Edward drawled, heaving out each word.

“Where-” From the drink and from the painfully apparent arousal, Andrew had to lick his lips after the word. Start over, forcing out the question with a jerk of his head to keep him in the present, “Where might I find such amendable company?”

Edward laughed. A sound completely foreign after all these years.

“Right here, Lieutenant Haldane,” He muttered, leaning forward to press their lips together, “Right here.”

Edward awoke to a tangled mass of limbs. In the cabin he built, on the bed he built, in the meaningless life he built. All for himself.

It wasn’t made for sharing.

Staring up at the wooden rafters, he wondered if he’d dreamt last night. The man sleeping peacefully beside him proved otherwise, yet the thought haunted him. He raised his hand into view, rubbing his calloused fingers against themselves. Blistered and rough, yes, but not wrinkled. Firm skin met his touch that spoke closer to youth than middle age.

It was something he’d never addressed, the passing of time in this place. It’d never felt like home, since Andrew Haldane was his home and the man was dead.

Definitely, without a doubt. Edward had felt the cold of his corpse, placed flowers in his rigid fingers, and shut the coffin lid. He knew death and Andrew Haldane was dead.

Beside him, the spitting image of his love slept quietly. Chest rising and falling, face pressed to the warmth of his elicit rendezvous’ neck. His eyes fluttered open, disturbed by a wetness against his forehead.

Andrew pushed himself up, rubbing one eye with the heel of his hand. Supported on his elbow, he squinted down at the man whose chest he lent on. A tall, curly haired man with a hand brought to his own face, shielding his eyes behind ashamed fingers. His shoulders trembled and his throat scraped with barely stifled pain.

“Are you alright, Mr. Jones?” Andrew asked, concern lacing every syllable.

He gently laid a hand against his company’s forehead, finding no fever. He ran his fingers into the man’s hair instead, combing through the curls, soothing the hurt he didn’t understand. Edward sniffed, still hiding his face, embarrassed by his sobs.

“It’s nothing.” He muttered, forcing a smile. “It’s just… been a while s’all.”

Andrew left that morning.

He pulled his boots back on and waved farewell from the dirt track. Edward watched him leave, leaning against the doorframe. His eyes followed the horse and its rider until he could no longer glimpse them. Then he stayed and stared a little longer for good measure.

Eventually, his attention turned skywards. Heaven resided and sent him its usual silence. He wondered if the Lord had sent that familiar stranger to punish him, let his tongue taste the sweetness of reunion and then pull the man away. He would never think it was a reward, a shred of redemption for the injustice that had taken Andrew from him all those years ago.

All those years ago. It was starting to sound uncomfortable on his tongue.

Lieutenant Andrew Haldane returned the week following their rendezvous. He left again the morning after.

He returned the next week, repeating the ritual and leaving the following morning.

The third week, he returned, and stayed for two additional nights.

Slowly, their time together grew. Edward would greet the sound of any hooves on the road with an open door, leaning against the frame with folded arms and an expectant smile. His grin would double in size if those hooves slowed to a stop, a recognizable tricorn hat pulled from the rider’s head as he dismounted. Normally with a laugh and a dramatic flourish.

Andrew was always happy to see him.

They ate together, drew water from the local well, tended to the lieutenant’s horse, stitched up each other’s shirt tears, sat atop the cabin’s roof and watched the stars. Drank and sung and made merry before stumbling onto the squeaking bed, protesting two men’s weight upon its wooden frame.

It went on like that for four years. Four years that Edward registered in flawless time, every second he waited for his love’s return agony; every moment in his presence a blessing upon his immortal soul.

Then, all of a sudden, it stopped.

Edward waited eight weeks for Andrew to reappear. He waited and he agonised and he watched the road.

Every sound of hooves had his heart racing, growing more agitated with each day. A fear he had thought himself free of had returned, undefeated by three decades of caring for naught but alcohol to drown himself in. Every passing rider or cart had him slamming his fist on the door, clutching a hand to his face as he watched them trot by.

That tricorn hat and frockcoat did not return.

With only the possessions he cared about slung over his shoulder (his pistol among them), Edward took to the road.

It was a long walk into town.

Lieutenant Haldane had been sent to supervise the building of Fort Necessity under Lieutenant Colonel Washington. He had then been forced to defend it against the besieging French and their allies.

If he’d survived the following surrender, nobody knew.

Edward found his lieutenant eventually.

He had to cross into the Province of Maryland to do it, which required a horse for the journey. His meandering path led to Fort Cumberland. He arrived in 1755. The hill was laden with baggage wagons, cannon ready for the towing, tents for what might have been two thousand men.

An unknown sensation ran over Edward as he approached, brought to a careful trot.

War left a strange discomfort in his bones, not that he could recognise the feeling.

He said he was here to see Lieutenant Andrew Haldane, Greenbrier county officer.

Dismounted and unarmed, he was led to an unacquainted tent. There, he found his man bent over a desk, scouring maps with his fellow officers. He turned around at the sound of the entrance being pulled back. The smile that drew across lips reflected the joy erupting in Edward’s heart.

“Captain Haldane.” His escort said and the stranger in their midst felt embarrassment heat his cheeks. He’d been unaware of the promotion. “This man requests audience with you.”

The officers surrounding their captain shared glances of distaste. Naturally, what with the dirty civilian wearing no cravat at his throat, mud colouring his stockings brown, and not a single piece of braid adorning his worn coat. This was not an officer nor officer’s companion.

Nevertheless, Andrew approached and grasped his shoulders with glee.

“Edward!” He cried, his voice betraying his excitement, the desire to do more than simply squeeze the man’s arm, “It’s so good to see you again.”

“Thank you, sir.” His visitor responded, curtly clipping the sounds to hide the relief he felt.

He would not leave Andrew alone with danger twice. The thought had driven him mad, wondering if his simplicity had surpassed into the moronic.

The captain was explaining to his companions the arrival of his stranger.

“He was my runner in the Virginia Militia.” He lied before turning back to Edward, “His service was invaluable against the Shawnee across Setfoot Ridge.”

The officers all nodded understandingly, pretending they knew where this battle location was. It should concern Edward that his lover might concoct such fiction without a single tell. Well, that made two of them, he supposed.

“Y’ could say we’re old friends.” He added softly.

Andrew sent a grin his way. He was amused at the lie. Edward smiled back at him. Because it wasn’t a lie.

“We march for Fort Duquesne in three weeks.” Andrew explained to the stars.

He had a cup of wine in his hand this time. Only the finest for a newly promoted captain. (Apparently, the surrender at Fort Necessity had left him far from rebuked.) Edward sat beside him, on a spare campaign stool, in awe of the military man his first love never had the opportunity to become.

“Against the French?” He asked.

Andrew nodded, sipping his drink. In an awkward imitation, his company did the same. Edward hoped it wasn’t obvious that he’d never tasted wine before.

“Will you be my runner, then?” The captain asked.

He looked to the other man with a gaze too sweet for a commanding officer.

“Would y’ take me?” Edward questioned.

He received a quiet chuckle and a dangerous smirk. His throat bobbed as he realised what he’d requested, averting his eyes in embarrassment. (Not that he retracted the invitation.)

“You’re here, aren’t you?” Andrew said, turning back to the stars, “I could use an old friend on the battlefield.”

It was the first time Edward wore a uniform.

He’d never had any interest in doing so before. Not until he could be part of Captain Haldane’s Rangers. Only then did he pull on that blue coat and feel truly dashing. The smile Andrew gave him was a reward beyond the fabric as the man placed a tricorn on his head.

It would never live up to the captain’s trim and gilded sword, but it was a start.

Their great expedition crawled along for the most part.

They were building a road while simultaneously marching to war. The sluggish pace and bubbling terror of battle mixed into a concoction that kept Edward up at night. Unable to rest, bolting awake at the slightest snap of foliage outside their tent.

He was coaxed out of his inexperience by Andrew, warm hands wrapping around his chest to hold him close. “It’s alright.” He would whisper, breath against his lover’s ear, “I’m right here.”

The captain knew how to soothe a man’s heart in more ways than one.

By day, Edward found a use he hadn’t anticipated. Building roads was the same as building churches; hard work that relied on confidence and brute force. He had both, under Andrew’s command.

Their column advanced. Their destination grew closer every passing second.

They weren’t part of the advance guard, the flying column marching ahead. They heard the gunshots all the same.

Up until then, everyone had spoken of an easy victory. Predictions went so far as to say their enemy would abandon the fort before they arrived.

When the gunfire called, that prophecy took flight. Their battle – and it was indeed to be a battle – had begun.

The turn of Edward’s head was slow, a painful motion that had him staring after the crack of muskets. In the distance, he saw birds erupt from above the trees. Soldiers around him began to shift rapidly, each a brightly coloured grain of sand slipping through fate’s fingers.

He only cared for the fingers digging into his shoulder, grasping him tightly. They freed the stiffness there, drained it into the dirt under his feet.

“Ready?” Andrew asked. His smile was confident and unwavering.

With a grin of his own, brought about by his faith in who stood beside him, Edward faced his captain.

“Know any French?” He chuckled, humour smothering the fear biting at his chest, “In case we catch any.”

The blond raised his eyebrows, stifling his laugh as he squeezed his love’s shoulder. His hand fell to his side, coat swaying as he made his way past.

Looking over his shoulder, Andrew spoke. “Ce n'est pas nécessaire.” 

At least this time, he got to speak to Andrew before he slipped away.

The advance guard was forced to retreat. In its haste to flee the savagery ahead, it ran straight into their column, rushing to its aid. It left them all pinned in the road together, fools in a barrel, flanked from both sides and with a third force marching upon their ranks.

Their enemy was concealed, hiding in the trees. Well prepared where the regulars from Britain, clearly, were not. They didn’t know how to fight on colonial terrain. Chaos ensued.

Major-General Braddock was the only sense of order present. He was but one man.

One mortal man couldn’t guide fate’s hand.

Andrew commanded a Virginian unit in the rear-guard. Exactly where Edward would want him to be, as far from the French onslaught as possible. Many a moment of fear gripped him once their own muskets started firing, fleeting glances where he considered grabbing the man’s arm. Pulling him free from this madness and dragging him back the way they’d come.

He didn’t. Because he believed, truly, that they could at least fall together here at Monongahela. So he pulled the trigger of his gun again, and again, his hands becoming disciplined with every repeated movement. He began to find comfort in the weapon.

He found greater comfort in Captain Haldane, sword raised and voice bellowing with a dominion that could only be bestowed by angels.

Until Braddock got shot. Then they were retreating.

Officers were targets, after all.

And in their attempt to disengage, a musket shot found Andrew’s side. It hit his ribs and shattered through his back. His yell became a single cry of pain; a short, dignified whimper that descended into a quiet groan through gritted teeth. It was a sound Edward had hoped to forget and never dreamed to hear repeated.

He dropped his musket, left it for their pursuers to enjoy. His arms were preoccupied, grabbing their wounded captain before he could collapse. The blond’s weight became his, supporting him as both their clothes grew damp.

Edward would not react slowly this time. He would not wait for Andrew to hit the ground. He would not make the same mistakes he had before.

Andrew was scooped into his arms. Together, they took off, Edward running for both their lives. Fire reigned around his head and every shot missed. He felt them pass his ears, tear his shirt sleeves. He ran back down the road they had built, chasing the retreating, fleeing, defeated forces they had accompanied.

If this was cowardice, then call him a coward. He had no thoughts for anything but the man bleeding in his arms.

“Captain coming in!” He remembered shouting, screaming, hollering to the wagons and horses he surpassed.

Almost sixty years of age, sprinting past trained soldiers and beasts of burden. All while carrying two men’s weight, one of them growing lighter every second.

“I got a wounded officer, f’ fuck sake!” He cried, “Get me a doctor!”

Andrew was laid in the back of a wagon, open beneath the daylight sky. His chest shook violently with every draw of his breath. Barely a spoonful of air seemed to enter and exit his trembling lips. He declined the rum offered to him.

Edward refused to leave his side, kneeling with the man’s head in his lap. The anger that contorted his features, ugly against the dirt on his skin, couldn’t stem the tears he felt returning. After thirty years, they came back.

History ran in cycles.

“You’re gonna be fine.” He remembered lying, to himself not Andrew, “Please, sir, y-”

The hand he had gripped in his squeezed weakly.

‘Stop’, it begged. A second pressure followed; ‘ _Look at me_ ’.

Droplets fell on blond hair as Edward met Andrew’s eyes, blue meeting blue. Just like before, looking down at a man in a pool of blood and bone. This time, though, there was a dying light behind that gaze.

A smile ghosted those trembling lips. The hand clutched tightly in his squeezed again.

“ _Ed_.” The captain whispered. He couldn’t manage the full length of his company’s name.

It required no following statement. The world received none, the light behind those eyes fading.

“Andrew-” Edward tried to respond.

He knew it was too late.

In July, 1755, Captain Andrew Haldane slipped away from him a second time.

Somewhere on the road near Fort Necessity, a wooden cross marked the honour of a captain lost in the Battle of Monongahela. Edward knew because he put it there.

Since he was never really in the Virginia Militia, vouched for by a courteous lover, it would have been easy enough to slip away. He hung around until 1763. He wanted every opportunity to put musket shots into French heads.

Which wasn’t really true, though he told himself religiously that this was for revenge. In reality, it was only his usual death wish.

Since he’d established the sin of suicide was (ironically) the only one out of his reach, he’d just get some Canadian militiaman to do it for him.

But, like all his pursuits in this unusually long life of his, he failed. The war came to an end. The Virginia Regiment he followed for eight years disbanded and Edward was once again left without direction.

Onwards the years rolled.

He meandered his way back to Massachusetts and he took his sweet time about it.

No hurry spurred him, the pistol returned to the back of his breeches once again. Loaded, ready, hidden beneath a smart coat he’d been left by an old friend.

Captain Haldane had been very peculiar about his earthy possessions. He had no wife, no siblings, no parents left to grieve for him. Strange for a man his age. His will dictated that his longest, dearest friend – one Edward Jones – should receive his wages, his belongings, and his homestead in Virginia. The sale of the latter left Edward with a pretty penny to spare, each coin and crumpled paper note smeared with crimson where it met his hand. Blood money, every shilling.

This newly minted man, turning eighty that year and sporting not a single grey hair, returned to the Church of Saint Andrew. He had something to check and a gift to present.

It hadn’t changed much, not that he set foot inside. A sense beyond his understanding told him his new boots would catch fire at the heel. Which would be a waste of good craftmanship, plain and simple. He gazed from the outside instead, hands on his hips, and marvelled at their fine work. The impromptu name he had nailed above the entranceway had stuck, the words simply repainted to preserve their good word.

He walked past the quiet churchyard. Through the trees and down the slightest incline of the woods, where he found a different wooden marker. One similar to that which he had drove into the soil of Virginia. This one was older and had become crooked in his absence.

That made Edward bitter, for some reason. Like the maintenance of a grave he’d made and nobody else knew about was somehow the surrounding townspeople’s problem.

Carefully and with gentle hands, he removed the wooden marker. It was growing cold and his horse was carrying a greater weight than him on his back. It was the reason he had walked beside the beast, not being a cruel man. (Towards horses, at least.)

The neatly wrapped parcel made him grunt with exertion as he pulled it down to earth. He’d spent an extortionate amount on the carving. He would have spent three times as much if needed, his entire fortune in fact. It was worth every pound he’d paid, burying that ornate headstone into the dirt.

He dug deep and made sure it was perfect where it stood. In his mind, this was a necessary deed that his world revolved upon. Realistically, it was just as important to feel his shovel knock against the coffin he’d built, check it was still there. Undisturbed and very real.

He hadn’t simply imagined this Andrew, nor his military counterpart.

Edward had to be sure and yet he refused to acknowledge the bizarreness of it all. He wouldn’t acknowledge the lack of brittleness in his bones, either. Or how his curls were still brown.

He sat by that grave for a while.

“You always said the army might be good f’ us.” He explained, carving the apple in his hand.

He held some out for his horse, ensuring he wasn’t interrupted by nibbling lips, leaving spittle on his love’s coat. He still wore a tricorn to complete the look.

“I swore, he was jus’ like you.” Edward continued, eyes drifting over the inscribed name before him, “I could’a sworn…”

Dwelling would do no good for them. Either of them.

After trying one more shot with that pistol at the grave of Andrew Haldane, Edward admitted defeat.

He patted the headstone farewell and headed for Boston.

Incapable of blowing his brains across the countryside, he was still convinced, didn’t mean he couldn’t die in other ways. Such as alcohol poisoning, for instance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Rum was the most popular drink for colonists by 1700 and it was often mixed with molasses, which is what 'Black Strap' was. (Along with some other forgotten additions.)  
> \- Andrew said "It will not be necessary." in French.


	2. Chapter 2

_**~~1750~~. 1774.**   
Boston, ~~Province of Massachusetts Bay~~ The Soon-to-be Free State of Massachusetts._

He rented a room in Boston from 1771, shortly after the _incident_ at the city’s Custom House. From his window, literally and figuratively, he watched the province erupt into violence over the next three years.

In a fashion he’d cultivated from roughly the turn of the century, Edward ignored every part of it. He walked past demonstrations and soldiers alike, uninterested in their rousing speeches or commands for order. Unless they were offering to kill him themselves – for which he’d humbly remove his hat and welcome them to try – he showed no acknowledgement.

His moral compass had died. Before his very eyes, falling from the roof of the church he’d slaved over. (Quietly, he’d note that it’s attempted rekindling had been doused as well. Bleeding out in his arms as they retreated from a chaotic battlefield.)

He drank at his lodgings, alone, and practiced his reading. His literacy was all but non-existent. Just one of the many things about him that couldn’t hold a candle to Andrew. (Both instances.) He gave up quickly, tossing out the idea of bettering himself for his dead lover’s benefit.

He resigned to simpler pursuits; repairing ships at the dockyards and getting into brawls in the local taverns. He preferred not to admit he liked feeling a strong man hit him. It was thrilling and he was touch starved, let him be judged for it.

(Had he bothered to learn to read, he’d have made note of the date on his captain’s death certificate, hidden away with that pistol in his desk drawer. Apparently, the commanding officer of Captain Haldane’s Rangers had been born in 1718. He’d been thirty-seven when he died, his lover knew that at least. A ripe old age.)

Looking in the mirror one evening, Edward admitted that his physical appearance wasn’t changing. He’d grown his hair, sure, and he’d always looked older than he was. Hard work and heavy lifting did that to a young man.

But his features hadn’t changed a bit since he was twenty-seven. Being overly cruel then, he looked about thirty-five. Bully for him.

The docks stopped providing him work. (Amongst other things. Sailors to flirt with, mainly.)

Boston Port Act, he was told. That had done it.

Not one to get political and still comfortably enjoying his dead commander’s funds, Edward was less bitter than the average man. It put him out of something to occupy his time, that was what soured him most.

It meant he needed entertainment, stimulation, something to do.

He ended up in the Green Dragon. (He didn’t have a regular watering hole and he didn’t care for loyalty to a building.) He sat and he drank the day away, slid into a wooden booth and no doubt annoying the owner by taking up a whole table.

What was the barkeep going to do, shoot him? Everybody else had missed so far.

Squinting down at the bottom of his cup, Edward was forced to listen to the dreary conversations around him. He had nobody to talk to himself. While Boston had its fair share of illicit activities, most of them involved women. A gender he had neither skill with nor interest in.

Those that didn’t involve women were far more secretive. Edward had considered them constantly, particularly lying awake in the evenings with a hand around himself.

Then he’d remember Andrew (the second one, usually) and how beautiful those nights in his cabin had been. And all his yearnings would melt away to hollow loneliness as nothing could quite measure up in appeal.

The conversation behind him, then. Hushed voices, alight with passion but curbed in volume. Provincial Congress, something about militia, gunpowder and muskets, hush hush, what about Concord? Someone Adams, someone else Adams, fuck, must’ve been a whole family. A war, a revolution, a bore of a political argument, can’t have been that important, call for another round.

All through, Edward sipped his rum. (It had definitely been watered down, but hard times were hard times.)

He didn’t notice the conversation behind him grow quiet because he hadn’t been listening. Eavesdropping was a minor sin that he was not yet acquainted with. (The current list remained at; cussing, theft, sodomy, and good old-fashioned murder.)

The silence behind him didn’t have him looking up; the glances from the barkeep did. The disappearance of other patrons, some leaving the scene, others simply turning their backs to him. Anyone left sent him the same intense stares the owner fixed him with.

The tall man frowned in confusion and straightened up. Over the back of his seat, a hand slammed against his mouth. It pressed down hard, a second hand appearing with an arm wrapped around his throat.

Edward panicked.

Instinctively, he bit down hard on the fingers over his mouth. A howl met his ears as he bucked, slamming his skull into his assailant’s jaw. The arm slackened and he wrenched himself free, spitting another man’s blood across the table.

A bottle smashed across his head and he stumbled.

So, he was outnumbered then. Oh well, he’d had a good run.

His defeat at the Battle of the Green Dragon was inevitable, considering how many men dogpiled him in the moment. It took at least five assailants and a bottle to get their hands on him. Even then, he remained conscious.

Drunk, but conscious.

They dragged him down to the cellar that the barkeep so politely held open for them. The steps knocked against his knees and blood dripped from his mouth. Some theirs, some his. Fair and square.

The cellar was dimly lit and about as populated as the bar above. (Sparsely at this hour. Edward had been in there all damn day.) A glance around revealed far too many armed men, standing guard on the entrance, for this party to be anything other than illegal.

He was forced to kneel before what he assumed to be the leader of this charade. The man had his back turned, preoccupied with a pint tankard and whatever important documents lined the table’s surface.

Edward ran his tongue along his teeth and let his head fall back in acceptance. He tasted the blood there and relished the sensation, every bit. A bruise blooming around his eye and an ache over his ribs. Mussed curls falling free of his ponytail, the dampness where spittle and blood left droplets on his collar. Ringing ears that were only just fading back into accurate hearing.

“-been listening all day, there’s no mistake-!”

“-and be done with it. You risk all our heads by letting him live.”

“-eavesdropping, you can’t be sure-!”

“I am sure. Please, listen to me, Andrew-”

Edward grinned. He spoke before he thought, the alcohol warming his blood and glass in his hair spurring him on.

“ _Andrew_.” He muttered drunkenly, huffing out a laugh. “Andrew Haldane.”

The room fell quiet. Whoever had fingers dug into his arms tightened their grip. Murmurs rattled around the corners of the basement and the man leant over the table straightened up. His blond hair whipped his forehead as he turned sharply, deep scowl cast down at the man placed at his feet.

“How do you know my name?” Andrew Haldane asked him.

In the dim candlelight of the cellar, Edward still recognised those handsome features. Struck dumb suddenly, he could only shake his head as he gazed upward. Eyes transfixed by the flickering vision of his lover’s face, once again presented for his bewilderment.

God was laughing. This must be the third act of His divine comedy.

From his breeches, Andrew drew his pistol and hung it by his side. His thumb ran over the hammer.

“I won’t ask again.” He demanded.

Edward swallowed thickly. It wasn’t fear he had to force shamefully down his throat. He managed to stifle his childish smile, keep his bloody teeth from flashing in the lamplight.

“I’ve-” He slowed his speech to a crawl, drawing on every rum-wet cog in his brain for assistance, “I’ve heard a’ you’.”

The hammer clicked, pulled back by Andrew’s thumb. Once more, Edward swallowed down a hot flash of desire. He glanced at the pistol with interest and without concern. Murmurs erupted across the room; the man on his knees failed to shy away from a loaded weapon.

The only concern grinding the gears of his mind was how to prolong this engagement. He needed to see more of that face, get another sweet helping of that voice.

“Whatever-” Arms still slung in two other men’s grip, Edward could only gesture vaguely with his hands, “Whatever y’ doin’, I want in.”

He should have done more eavesdropping and less drinking.

Nevertheless, Andrew’s guard softened. Not in any compassionate way; his frown moved from suspicious and concerned to dismissive and unimpressed.

“What’s your name, sir?” He asked, “Since you’re so familiar with mine.”

“Edward!” Came the excited response, “Edward Jones!”

“Well, Mr. Jones.” He spoke as if addressing a child, “I think whatever services you might hope to provide, we’re better off in their absence.”

The onlookers stifled their laughter poorly. Edward felt shame cut through his liquid courage, bringing a coldness across his skin. The blood in his mouth grew stale and his dishevelled appearance embarrassing. He realised his arrogance in speaking a name he didn’t deserve to hold dear.

This man didn’t know him. They were strangers once more, strangers in a hostile situation no less. How could he have put both feet forward and let both of them be his worst?

In times of need, his bitterness shone through.

“If you’re not gon’ take me,” Edward stated bluntly, “Then y’ gotta shoot me.”

That snipped quickly at the laughter and had the cellar’s leader turning back around. He’d been content to return to his table and tankard, presuming he was done with this exchange. He’d thought wrong.

But then, he didn’t know Edward Jones, did he.

Andrew didn’t address him verbally, merely sent a pointed look his way. ‘Continue’, it said.

“I want t’ join you.” The man on the floor pleaded, still unsure of what exactly he was hoping to join, “An’ if I can’t join you, then y’ can’t let me live. I heard a lot upstairs.”

Hopefully, his bluff wouldn’t be called. He recalled none of the conversations upstairs. Since this incarnation – was that the word he would use? – of Andrew had never known him, any tells should go unnoticed.

A correct deduction. The man above him didn’t question his lie.

“Or,” The blond said simply, “I could do neither.”

Edward had been defeated by the man’s mercy. He could only gawk, look at the handsome face of his lost love like it had been replaced by a chicken’s. No other viable option had crossed his stricken mind.

This was indeed his Andrew, two steps ahead of him at all times. Formerly kind enough to look over his shoulder and wait for his stupid companion to catch up.

Not tonight. This Andrew had things to do.

“Escort this man to the door.” Andrew ordered. “Throw him to the curb, if need be.”

There were mutters of protest against his ear and Edward himself agreed with them. Allowing a potential spy to live was madness of the highest order. The blond waved them away, responding with his usual steadfast and compassionate command.

The grip on Edward gained an additional fist to the scruff of his neck, a third man helping the first pair drag him from Andrew’s presence. His heels scraped the cellar floor as he protested, muttering incoherent pleas for them to release him, for a moment of their time. To explain, to admonish, to present the case he hadn’t compiled because he hadn’t prepared for this.

All fell on deaf ears. His weak struggles in a drunken and battered state were unthreatening.

“Goodbye, Mr. Jones.” He heard Andrew call. “Do not darken this tavern’s door again.”

Edward awoke with his cheek in the mud and the smell of piss filling his nostrils.

It wasn’t his and that made it worse. He’d managed to get all the way back to his apartment and then fell asleep in the alley outside. Quietly and shamefully, he picked himself up. He slithered upstairs to his lodgings and locked the world away behind his door for a while.

After ripping off his filthy clothes, cleaning himself in the wash basin, and sleeping for another hour; he was ready to look himself in the mirror.

Sat on his stiff mattress, he didn’t like what he saw.

A snivelling wreck of man looked back at him and he was forced to avert his gaze. His curls still refused to stay pulled back into the neat ponytails of his peers and there were specks of filth he’d missed on his collar. The blackeye and split lip completed an ugly portrait for consideration.

Edward sniffed, wiping the quiet tears from his eyes.

Some were for him and the man he’d become; the rest for the hideous nightmare he’d endured last night. He’d drunk enough to convince himself Andrew had returned to him a third time and that left a weight on his chest of unbearable magnitude.

The first love he’d enjoyed had been a blessing and a mistake on the Lord’s part to let a man like him enjoy it. The second was pure blasphemy and should never have appeared.

Both those beautiful people were dead and buried. There would be no third swansong for those two very different, very separate, very _coincidental_ Andrews.

Edward vowed to avoid the rum from then on. He couldn’t take another drunken fantasy like that.

From his apartment window, Edward watched the streets of Boston.

He hadn’t left the house in days, fearful of the reality he might experience. Funny really. Drunken stupors were supposed to end with the hangover and be no scarier than a wife’s chastisement, not haunt you into hermitry.

The streets moved ever onwards without him. Neither his input nor permission were required.

The sun was out. It was warm. He enjoyed the weather from behind an open window, chewing his beloved tobacco with his elbow on the sill.

Then he saw a flash on blond hair pacing down the street and he slammed the window shut again.

Through the glass, there was still no mistake. He watched Andrew Haldane cut through that dirty Boston road, following his every step until he disappeared down a side street. To say it wasn’t him would require confession.

Edward slid to the floor gracelessly, one hand still clutching the sill as the other pressed against his lips. It stifled his overwhelmed sobs but couldn’t quell the tremble in his shoulders.

It wasn’t Andrew he followed. It was the bright red coats of the men trailing Andrew.

Wherever the blond went, they weren’t far behind. Convenient; it left no chance of Edward being spotted. He was a dismissible, unimportant follower. He played the part well. Committed to the act, his boots squelched against the muddy streets quietly. His hands were plunged deep into his coat pockets. He’d left his hat at home.

Every time he exhaled, matching the beat of his steps, Edward felt it. The gust of air pulling him closer, drawing from his lungs a need to walk this path. He’d dried his eyes and stopped his tremors and pulled his hair back into a ponytail. His apartment couldn’t hold him against the string of fate tugging so viciously.

It was the first time he acknowledged the pull. In but a fleeting thought before red flashed across his vision.

The soldiers were speeding up. Andrew had ducked into an alley.

Suddenly, Edward was running. He felt lighter without a dying man in his arms or a musket slung over his shoulder. Yet the movement was the same, down to the bend of his knees and the splash of the puddles.

His body slammed into the back of one redcoat. Tackling, knocking their shoulders with the force of a bull. The boy – and he was just a boy, to be sure – stumbled into the filth of the city streets, dropping his weapon. His counterpart turned, fumbling with his flintlock. Not that it would matter, his powder would sizzle anticlimactically.

As it always did for Edward’s sake.

The curly haired man was preoccupied, uninterested in the blundering and shouts to halt. He’d already ducked down, grabbed the leather bag on the fallen redcoat’s belt. Cut it free, one swift motion, and taken off running.

He wasn’t a real thief, didn’t need whatever worthlessness could be found inside. He consoled himself with the thought. This was a pretend sin, in the pursuit of greater reward.

Sin for selfish gain was as real a sin as any other. Worse, in fact.

Edward took those two soldiers with him, chased through the raging streets of Boston. Stole his love’s thunder, grinning wildly at the excitement of his aching legs. Every step spurred another, until his chest was heaving and the shouting came from four, five, a whole company of redcoated soldiers.

Andrew had been forgotten. Wherever he’d disappeared to, Edward hoped it was safe and warm.

The law caught up to him this time. His long legs weren’t infallible.

Fear was an insidious thing.

It didn’t grow or appear inside a man; it was a part of him, just as his lungs or stomach were. His fear could be fed or starved, and it would rise and fall with his choices.

Edward could admit the tightness in his throat, as he glimpsed that wooden post, was definitely born of fear. In the unrest of the city, the governor’s punishments had to be harsh to deter repeat offenses.

He was almost certain he couldn’t die from a musket ball or tomahawk. (Almost.) He had no experience with flogging, however. Without previous contact to draw upon, he was unsure if his survival was certain.

Even if told it _was_ certain, he wouldn’t believe it.

The iron shackles kept his wrists in place, locked either side of the post. A crowd had gathered for the spectacle though he couldn’t judge them for it. Anything to cut through the monotony of daily life. He’d have been there too, were he not the main attraction.

A man in a redcoat read his sentence out loud. It was lost to the crowd and the heaving of his chest. Edward breathed deeply, regimented, in and out and in again. Through his nose like an enraged beast. Any intelligent onlooker would realise the difference; he wasn’t angry. And he certainly wasn’t some brave and wild animal, ignorant and fierce.

He was just a man, terrified of what was coming, trying his best to prepare.

Eyes open, he took a moment to glance at the spectators. Looking for what, he didn’t know. He’d sooner find Jesus himself than a friendly face. Or so he was convinced, brow cutting into a deep frown as he caught a flash of blond beneath a familiar tricorn.

He wasn’t permitted to study the prophetic vision. The sentencing had been recited and hands grabbed the back of his shirt. The fabric screeched, torn open to reveal his bare shoulder blades and untouched skin.

The first stroke of the whip fell. Edward’s forehead hit the wood, planted firmly there as a grunt of pain was ripped from his throat. Sweaty skin caressed the post where his temple brushed its splinters, his cheeks blown out in relief. His back stung along the many lines that burned his flesh, the multiple tails having drawn the smallest of bloody beads.

He’d survived and without a cry. He almost smiled.

He should have known better than to breathe so deeply, so victoriously. To feel pride in his silence at that moment, how ignorant.

The second stroke hurt twice as much. It tore already battered skin, send a burning over his spine that had his shackles clattering.

The third lash drew out his voice. A real cry, eyes clenched shut and features contorted in an ugly display. He writhed with hatred, for himself more than his assailant. He’d let himself slip, shouting a strangled cuss.

He was weak and each lashing was going to prove it. In front of all of Boston, if need be. (He wasn’t that important. But neither were the spectators; he only cared for one opinion amongst the crowd.)

The strokes continued. Each drew another wretched cry, followed by punctuating whimpers. Tears splashed his cheeks as Edward’s lip trembled, humiliated as he failed to take his licks like a man. Blood splashed the stonework of the square. He could follow one droplet with his eyes. It blurred with the puddles and mud, just where it belonged.

The fifteenth stroke tore his flesh enough that no scream followed. A gurgle bubbled from him, cutting his noises short as his legs gave out. The metal biting his wrists kept him upright in some bastardised display, knees scraping the ground as his eyes rolled back.

If Edward passed out, he couldn’t quite recall. The next lash woke him up quickly enough.

Maybe this wasn’t for stealing. In the wider picture, it was for everything. For the blood on his hands and the blasphemy of his breath. For every divine moment he’d spent caressing his lover’s hot, sweat-slicked skin.

‘I’m a doctor.’

He remembered that, clear as day, along with the brine they’d doused him in after the final stroke fell. It was water but it burned hotter than any flame against his wounds.

Dragged through the dirt by two vibrant red blurs, those angelic words rattled as church bells to the saved. Their owner was a stranger to him, unrecognised in voice or blurry features.

Whoever it was, they were a doctor. That must be good for him.

The wooden ceiling above his head wasn’t his lodgings. Nor any familiar tavern, their greying colour fading into view. They were held above him, beyond the scratchy sheets he felt against his stomach. A soft mattress held his weight. His back ached, every one of the Devil’s talons raking over his skin.

Edward awoke with a groan, followed by a loud; “ _Fuck_.”

A glance downwards revealed coarse bandages strapped around his chest, stained with the smears of their work. Blood long dried, left by compassionate hands. He presumed they reached all the way around, and that the parts that met his shoulder blades were far grimmer to see.

“You’re a lucky man, Mr. Jones.” He heard from across the bedroom.

It must have been a bedroom since he was lying on its bed. All ownership pointed to the man who spoke, sitting on a stool against one wall. Barely five feet from the bedside, fingers toying restlessly with his blond hair.

The smile that cracked Edward’s features was watery, though it was accompanied by no tears. He held those back on account of their unfamiliarity.

“Mr. Haldane.” He greeted politely. Sobriety allowed for a better approach this time.

An introduction reserved and pleasant enough that it might undo their disastrous first encounter.

“I apologise-” Edward continued, swallowing to wet the hoarseness of his voice, “F’ my behaviour the other night.”

He prayed his desperation was endearing rather than pitiful. (He didn’t hold out much hope for that miracle.)

Blue eyes fixed upon him dangerously, awe meeting bewilderment in one intense stare. Andrew looked at him as you might a mad man, a violent spectacle that impressed as much as it confused. The recipient couldn’t fathom why.

“You’re apologising to me?” The blond asked. It was followed by a breathless laugh he couldn’t seem to reign in.

Opening his mouth to give a reply, Edward thought better of it. He chose to nod instead.

In his pained state, he thought he caught Andrew’s gaze soften. It was probably a trick of the light. There was no need for confirmation, he had already turned away. His knee bounced agitatedly and his nail was placed between his teeth.

His thoughts looked intense. Edward didn’t envy him.

“Tell me why.” The blond demanded. He wasn’t referring to the apology.

The bedridden of the two adjusted himself against the mattress, attempting to sit up and speak. He received a dose of sharp, tearing agony for his troubles. His hiss was loud and died only when he released a breathless whimper to replace it. His body stilled, submitting to the whip’s legacy. Anything to prevent another fantom lash at his back, despite how uncomfortable he already was.

The mattress dipped. Andrew had come to rest beside him.

Wide eyes were revealed through curly locks, flashing upwards. They found that same powerful blue, intensity laced with compassion.

Supporting those damp curls with a tender hand, cradling the back of his head, Andrew brought a cup to Edward’s lips.

“Here.” He murmured softly.

His patient obeyed without a second’s hesitation. He needed no more instruction, parting his lips to enjoy the cool water running down his throat. If it spilled over his bandaged chest, neither commented. Wounded men deserved sympathy, not scolding.

“Thank you.” Edward managed once the cup retreated. To his delight, Andrew didn’t follow the object’s lead. He placed it on the bedside table and remained seated.

“I don’t wish to see men bleed on my behalf.” He muttered.

The confidence behind the statement was lost to the softness of his voice. There was a mournful sentiment there that couldn’t make a command of his words.

Arm resting on his stomach, scratching at the pale sheets, Edward couldn’t help but smile. How naïve this Andrew was. It was as obvious in his tone as it was in his features, catching the light at delicate angles. If the scabbed nicks at his jaw spoke truthfully, he didn’t shave often enough to be practiced at it.

“Men bleed willingly f’ leaders they respect.” The bedridden man explained, with a wisdom unbecoming of his sweaty brow.

A glance was sent his way, set with a deep frown. Blond hair whipped Andrew’s back lightly with the motion, his ponytail coming to rest against his unbuttoned waistcoat.

“Who told you that?” He asked.

Curiosity and genuine interest stirred the question. A beautiful combination that coaxed pride from the taller of the two.

“An old friend.” Edward said first. “My captain.” He added second.

Both were true. Of all his gracious flaws, he wouldn’t lie to Andrew, this one or any other.

The answer satisfied somewhat. It failed to stop the eruption of follow-up questions, the blond man placing one hand on the wooden headboard. He lent down, inching closer to the face laid below. Held himself exactly there, hovering over the other man.

“I’m not your leader.” Andrew muttered. There was no malice, merely truth.

Truth that hid a lie, though it’s teller was innocent. Edward turned his head slightly, to ensure their eyes met. He wanted the blond to remember this moment, just as he would remember it. Attentively, passionately, held in the highest regard even as his back ached and his voice cracked.

“Not yet.” Edward replied.

Whatever conversation might have been set alight, it ended as the door swung open.

Andrew pulled back from where he hovered over his company. Retreated with a single swift straightening of his back, as if he’d done it before. Someone who knew how to put those precious inches between himself and another man, at a moment’s notice.

The doctor who’d seen to Edward’s wounds entered the stage.

“Arthur.” Andrew greeted.

He stood up from the bed, clasping hands briefly with the bedroom’s latest addition. A muttered word was given to the doctor, who nodded understandingly. Edward watched, not daring to pry. He focused instead on the newcomer’s red hair, reflecting the window’s light. It was notably vibrant in colour.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Jones?” Brought him back into the conversation.

The bedridden man smiled stiffly. “Felt better.”

With Andrew leaning against the closed door and committed to observation only, the stool by the wall was left free. The doctor dragged it to the bedside, placing his bag on the floor. Concern shaped his expression. Politeness preoccupied his thoughts, however, and he introduced himself.

“My name is Arthur Sledge.” He said. “I’m thrilled to see you awake.”

Checking Edward’s forehead with the back of his hand, Arthur let out a long exhale. He chewed his lip.

“You surely are a lucky man.” He admitted, daring to meet his patient’s gaze, “I thought for sure you would die.”

It shouldn’t be an admission that made someone laugh so warmly.

Andrew stayed by his side for the remainder of his recovery. Whether that fact strengthened or worsened Edward’s condition was hard to say.

The warm hearth and thick walls of the blond’s house helped. It was a beautiful brick building, overlooking Boston’s waters. His guest was able to tour the rooms during his tentative walks about, testing his ability to stand without aid.

Somewhere during this quiet carer-patient alliance, Andrew admitted he had been carrying sensitive material on his person when he was being followed. He asked the ‘drunken and esteemed’ Mr. Jones what he wanted, in return for his favour. (Mr. Haldane was not one to remain in another man’s debt.)

“I want t’ help.” Edward answered. When Andrew seemed concerned, perplexed, even unsatisfied with the response, he repeated his conviction from the tavern; “Or you just have t’ shoot me this time.”

Andrew Haldane was the son of a fabric maker. He’d inherited the business within the last decade. His father’s name, painted on the side of the family’s cotton mill in Cambridge, was better known than his.

He was an avid Massachusetts minuteman. He was currently supplying armaments to those storing them in Concord. 

His means were on the modest side of wealthy and rapidly declining, hanging him on the brink of destitute. Why he would throw away the stability of British rule was a well-worn question, muttered under many a breath. Along with turning heads, eyeing him with jealously as he was lauded for his work; the hundreds of muskets he procured over the winter made him greatly revered. Questions arose around that too, how the man could seemingly elevate his social stature higher by the day without wasting a moment blanket-making. Surely, he should be bankrupt by now.

(The fine waistcoat that appeared upon his back one day also turned a few heads, but he curtly avoided comments on it. Ashamed of the purchase, perhaps, a moment of weakness when more pressing matters were at hand. He looked dashing in it.)

Edward knew the answers to both questions.

The first was more complex. The second wasn’t. They rolled into one.

Captain Andrew Haldane (1718 - 1755) would want his inherited funds to further a good cause.

“I never apologised for what I said that night,” Andrew admitted to him, “In the Green Dragon.”

They’d left Boston for the safety of the Haldane mill in Cambridge. He passed another powder horn to his right, to the man stood beside him. Working hard over the same table, candle flames illuminating their important motions. Even the most dedicated patriots tended not to stay up so late.

How fortunate. Young men often said idealistic things in the wee hours of the night.

“Forget about it.” Edward replied. He didn’t look up from his work.

“You must really believe in the cause.” Andrew said instead. “You’ve done so much for us-”

The break in his speech was subtle, barely a blink. He pretended it wasn’t there at all.

“For me.” He confided.

Edward glanced his way. He received no eye contact in return, left in the shadow of his company’s movements. Andrew reached over to inspect another pistol, lifted from the rows upon rows laid out for his pleasure.

His companion chose to hold his tongue.

Edward didn’t hear the shot heard around the world.

He was busy preparing for the reload.

He heard Andrew enter his tiny, enlisted tent. (Enter was generous. The man could only duck and poke his head inside, it was so small.) The white canvas slapped against itself loudly, startling the sole occupant. Edward calmed as a familiar face demanded his attention. He grunted, both a greeting and sound of disapproval.

“A word.” The blond insisted. He sounded out of breath.

Rising from a brooding cleaning session with his aging pistol, Edward ducked out of his one-man home. Thousands of them stretched beyond where he stood, tiny pyres of white along the horizon.

Fifteen thousand total. 1775. They were besieging Boston.

Edward should care more about that, but his furrowed brow turned exclusively on the pink in Andrew’s cheeks. On his hairline, where beads of sweat had appeared. His chest rose and fell with a deep, timed rhythm. Whether from excitement or exhaustion, his company couldn’t tell.

Edward’s eyes followed each motion, concern moving with his gaze. He found a piece of paper in the blond’s grip. Creases had begun to form where he held it so tightly.

“Are you alright?” The taller man asked. He tried desperately not to squint down at his love, belittle him with his overprotective nature. They’d worked closely together but alas, they’d known each other only a year or so. (In this lifetime, anyway.)

The paper was offered in reply. Edward took it carefully, knowing it was precious.

There were times he forgot that Andrew – in this instance – had yet to turn twenty. Purposely forgetting, if need be. It left a bitter aftertaste to consider that Edward was over four times his age. His years alive were the one thing about him that could dwarf his company.

Instances like this brought that fact into sharp relief. This reminder was amusing rather than painful. Precious seconds had passed since Andrew handed over the paper and his patience had already worn thin. He was ready to burst before Edward even had a chance to squint at the written words.

“I’ve been commissioned by Massachusetts’ Provincial Congress.” Andrew blurted.

The usual steady rolls of his voice didn’t match the fire biting at his heels. He was all riled up, leaving him to straighten his back, embarrassed by the lax in decorum. He reigned in his excitement silently, just as Edward forced down his smile. (He didn’t want to reveal such a mournful, nostalgic expression.)

“They found me worthy of the rank of captain.” The blond explained, his hands folded behind his back in a gentleman’s pose. His tone had levelled out. “My standing with the militia and work to free Boston has not gone unnoticed.”

He stopped there, clipping his words to a succinct and elegant conclusion, a familiar display for his company. There should be no more to say on the matter.

The way the toe of his boot tapped in the mud gave Edward reason to believe otherwise.

Andrew’s eyes met his fiercely before darting away, repeating the dance several times. Standing so close together, Edward could see his muscles twitch. Some movement was being restrained, a desire to place his arms, his hands, somewhere that they shouldn’t be.

Andrew resisted. He remained composed.

The taller of the two spoke to put him out of that misery, scanning the paper without being able to read it. He believed what was described. He nodded and respectfully handed it back.

“Congratulations, Captain.” He replied. Even around the lump in his throat that title caused, he sounded genuine. “It’s well deserved.”

“Thank you.” Andrew breathed, finally allowing a little of that tension from his chest, “I wanted to tell you personally.”

Such a short statement shouldn’t be allowed to divulge so much. As soon as it fell from the blond’s lips, his Adam’s apple bobbed. His regret was visible for a second before he blinked slowly, letting any annoyance at himself vanish. Cleansing his expression to minimise damage.

Edward respectfully looked away. His pale eyes moved over the tents, the army flowing around them. He chose to ignore the specks of mud that had splashed on his company’s white breeches. Caused by running, no doubt, along with his shortness of breath. All to imply he’d come straight here, once dismissed by his superiors.

He was still wearing the waistcoat Edward had bought him, wasn’t he.

“Why?” The taller man asked. It was a cruel question and he turned back to its victim when he said it, looking him in the eye to drive the point home. His patience for this particular game had not grown with age.

Andrew, to his credit, didn’t flinch. Like his counterparts before him, he lifted his chin and rose to the occasion. Exactly as expected.

“Your help has been invaluable.” He said. “I wanted you to know first-hand what became of your investments.”

He was lying. Edward could see it in his eyes.

In distant history books that Edward hoped to never read, nobody should be comparing the Battles of Bunker Hill and Monongahela.

That was his unenviable burden, recognising the same desperate expressions of retreating soldiers he had two decades prior. Only these weren’t so much soldiers as ‘patriots’. Sounded sweet on paper. Turned sour against the beat of marching marines toward their position.

It was strange to see Andrew’s arm rise, motioning to fall back, without a uniform to mark him out. The buff-coloured cockade in his hat was something, supposedly. That was all this ragtag army had. His breeches were blackened by the dirt, his coat retired somewhere far from here. Rolled up shirtsleeves made him look quite ordinary.

His voice did not. It carried far enough that angels cracked open many an eye.

“Jones!” He cried, thrusting his musket behind him.

It was caught immediately by equally filthy hands, swapping a loaded weapon for an extinguished one. Expertly reloaded, quick and precise and born from many a misfire. Bringing that weight to his shoulder, Andrew fired again. The gun shrieked. An enemy officer, brandishing his sabre high, spun on his heel and fell to wet the grass in the wake of the shot.

Edward wondered if he was fast enough to dive over their entrenchment and claim that sword. It would make a fine gift.

A hand gripped his shoulder.

“Move.” Andrew ordered. “Help the wounded.”

Edward carried a bleeding man from Bunker Hill as they retreated.

It was not Andrew Haldane, and for that he was eternally grateful.

They placed Captain Haldane, a man familiar with both Cambridge and Boston intimately, in charge of spotting for some of the cannon brought about by Colonel Knox. To see and digest, then report back. Through his spyglass atop one of their many fortifications, Andrew surveyed the shoreline and buildings of his former city.

Whatever he saw there ceased to amuse.

“The bastards set up shop in my Goddamn drawing room.” Andrew muttered as he lowered his telescope.

He spared no glance Edward’s way. The taller man stood to his right, leaning both hands on his musket, and merely watched. He enjoyed the angles of his love’s features, the restrained but grim contortion of skin. A black ribbon pulled his blond hair back over a new blue coat, completed by that cockade in his hat.

His rage was magnificent to behold.

“Five pounds!” Andrew cried, addressing those guarding their new toys, “To any man who puts a cannon ball through my house!”

The cold snap as his spyglass punctuated the curl of his lip, the heave of his chest, the snarl of his voice.

“Level it if you can.” He hissed.

It was not a sound Edward recognised, that vitriol, though his nostalgia reminded him that Captain Haldane (the first) hadn’t cared much for his house in Virginia either.

A predictability, then. Andrew had a habit of making a home in difficult places, away from family property.

Those early victories certainly tasted sweet.

They brought with them several handsome realisations for Edward, enticing in the deceptive joy they brought him.

This new Continental Army suited him well. He’d learned a great deal in the years following Monongahela; he was the fastest loader by far and a menace with a bayonet. And a strategist to boot, yet polite enough not to advertise himself as such. Thirty years practice would do that to you.

His experience was a favour not even Andrew could bestow and the red stripes on his shoulder proved his merit. A right-hand man, a trusted non-commissioned officer, a veteran of an earlier war. (He claimed he’d been a boy when they marched against the French, some dead captain’s runner. Ha-fucking-ha.)

Private Jones disappeared as easily as he’d appeared. Sergeant Jones stepped immediately into his boots. They were a perfect fit.

He hoped Andrew didn’t have too much to do with that.

Well-drilled soldiers could get off four shots in a minute. The best of them could squeeze out five.

The crack of Edward’s musket was met with silence amongst the regiment, gathered on their makeshift parade ground. The final ticks of the pocket watch’s hands reached twelve, marking the completion of sixty-seconds. Andrew held it in his palm and, after a moment, nodded solemnly. He stood in his magnificent coat and bore witness to the achievement.

“I believe that makes six, Sergeant.” He said coldly. He hid his smile well.

Their regiment cheered. Edward lowered his weapon, ignoring the celebration that erupted around him. Through the jostling and hair-ruffling he enjoyed from his fellow soldiers, he looked only to his captain. The pride reflected back at him set his heart fluttering.

If he’d been born a neat Massachusetts man – and Congress could get its thumb out its ass for a fucking _moment_ – he’d have his commission by now. Andrew sent letter after letter testifying to his merit. A waste of good paper, one and all.

Edward didn’t care much for that.

He cared for the return of old privileges, like spending his nights in Captain Haldane’s modest command tent. Pouring over maps and plans of attack, of the next move ordered by their superiors. Admittedly, it was only half as satisfying as the previous incarnation, when extracurricular activities had been mixed in.

But the greatest pleasure remained; Andrew had always been the man to listen to his grunted opinions. Edward rarely gave them freely to anyone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- £5 in 1770 was worth about £436/$564 today, so Andrew's really flexing with that reward for blowing a hole in his house.  
> \- The way continental army officers were distinguished before they could get uniforms was through lil rosettes in their hats; Andy's would be "buff", a gross mustard colour.


	3. Chapter 3

1777 was drawing to a close. Valley Forge had his work cut out for him.

He’d built a road for Washington before and succeeded, until the French decided they disagreed with his design choices. Requesting a regiment’s worth of housing on back-pay was another matter entirely.

He did it for Andrew, as with all things.

It was good to know that, besides being an experienced soldier, his ability to build had gone nowhere. Not to mention the joy he felt, receiving the praise from every bleary-eyed, ragged-clothed patriot who watched him hammer their huts into shape. Standards varied between constructors all across the valley, but Edward’s were by far the best in the camp.

Andrew’s words, not his.

“Snow’s comin’.” The sergeant said as he stepped inside their particular hut.

His captain’s hut, technically. But Edward built the damn thing, so he felt a touch entitled to its pathetic warmth. Polite talk failed to hide the shiver in his words, the clouds of steam cascading from his lips. The fire crackled softly, illuminating the tight space within.

“The Second Massachusetts Regiment thanks you for your observation, sergeant.” Andrew droned.

Seeing it was his right-hand man who entered, he’d done little more than turn from where he sat. He made no move to stand, nor remove the blanket around his shoulders. He remained seated and shivering, rubbing his hands together aggressively to fend off the chill. His stubble was becoming a touch unruly.

“Thought we was Continental Twenty-third.” Edward mused.

The door was shut and he could freely toss the bread he carried at his superior. The blond caught it stiffly, hands clapping around the loaf in a prayer to terrible meal options. His stomach growled appreciatively.

“Disbanded last year.” Andrew explained. His words were clipped, expending no extra effort in the cold. “Sometimes I wonder if you pay attention, Jones.”

A tough crack echoed were he bit down on the bread. Edward, mimicking the action once he saw his captain eat, followed with a similar crunch. The piece of bread in his fingers was a quarter of the size.

“I jus’ follow you.” He replied.

He continued eating, unphased by the sentiment. He perched himself on the flimsy stool he had crafted. (For this hut, and this hut alone.)

Andrew’s chewing slowed. His eyes moved over the pathetic morsel held in his sergeant’s hands, then down to the relative feast he cradled in his.

“I wonder about that, too.” He muttered.

When the drums started playing, Edward was expecting Yankee Doodle.

One morning of 1778 – as blisteringly cold as any other at Valley forge – he awoke to the scuffling sounds of his many bunkmates filing out the door. All dressed up in whatever semblance of uniform their frayed coats could provide. Hats on, muskets in hand.

He wasn’t expecting a parade today. His toes stung where he pressed them into his boots.

He found Andrew amongst the rows of spectators, lining the road of their encampment. The path was cleared for the approaching drumming. It grew louder, threatening to appear from behind many a wooden hut.

The Rogue’s March was being played.

Taking up his place beside his captain, Edward kept his eyes on the road. His sideways lean was subtle, putting his words just within earshot of his superior.

“What’s this about?” He asked quietly. He added a forgetful; “Sir.”

He hated the way Andrew inhaled. Slow, restrained, drawing in freezing air in a painful display of decorum.

“Lieutenant Gates is being drummed out.” He said curtly.

Any more information on the matter would have to be drummed out of _him_ , apparently. Edward noted how the blond seemed unwilling to speak further. The taller assumed he must know the man, be sympathetic to his plight by familiarity.

Gates appeared in the road, stumbling between two roaring drummers, beating enthusiastically at their instruments. His coat was turned inside out, the mark of a delinquent. He had no boots on.

Andrew stood up a little straighter, clenched his jaw a little harder. Beside him and his sergeant, their company revelled in the condemned’s destruction. They shouted colourful insults and threw snow at the poor man, who shielded his face and fought to stay upright. Even with his eyes cast towards his bare feet, he didn’t shed a tear, no matter how much he wanted to. His features betrayed him in that regard.

Edward’s sideways glance revealed a similar expression from his captain. Andrew glared straight ahead, away from the fast-approaching drummers. His expression was one of pain, an anger and sorrow that made his eyes sparkle.

Edward couldn’t stand it.

“ _Company-!_ ” He sang, turning back to the hollering soldiers, “Shoulder y’ firelocks!”

The snow-throwing stopped instantly as muskets were obediently brought into place. Pity the insults could only be quieted; even at attention, the Massachusetts men could still spit when Gates was paraded by. Every drummer and piper from the camp marched behind him, playing their music loud and clear. Edward shouldered his own musket as the condemned stumbled before him. Andrew closed his eyes briefly. He had forgotten to bring his hat.

Purposely. You couldn’t be accused of removing something that wasn’t there.

It took a long time for the entire parade to pass by. Only when the drumming faded out of earshot did the company retire back to their huts.

“Y’ know him?” Edward muttered, turning Andrew’s way. He hoped his voice was sympathetic.

To his surprise, the captain shook his head. “No.”

How he watched after the parade, gazing in the direction they had disappeared, might have betrayed his lie. If it was a lie, and the sergeant wasn’t sure that it was.

Something else pulled Andrew’s heart, had him glancing up at his company with pained features. They softened with gratitude upon seeing Edward’s shouldered musket and recognising the help he had offered. The captain nodded his thanks and retreated to his hut.

He left questions in his wake.

Drumming out was supposed to be merciful. Humiliation for crimes not as serious as treason but serious enough to warrant dismissal. Except, in the winter they found themselves buffeted by, it might be a death sentence.

Edward went hunting for the information Andrew refused to share. Turned out, Lieutenant Gates was a sodomite.

Andrew became a solemn man the evening following the parade. He sat at the table Edward had built for him, on the chair Edward had built for him, in the hut Edward had built for him. He drummed his fingers uselessly against the cup Edward had carved for him, too.

His grief blinded him anew to all the signals he was being sent. Or perhaps he was oblivious. Or he was ignoring them. Or, and this remained the option that could break a certain curly-haired soldier, he was just uninterested in the meagre offerings.

His sergeant entered the hut without knocking. No reprimand was given.

So Edward shut the door, locked it even. With a crudely shaved peg he’d devised, shoved into the gap between door and frame. The wedge held firm against a hard shove at the very least. It wasn’t like there were any windows.

He approached and stood at Andrew’s side. The blond wouldn’t even look at him. His cup smelt of rum.

“What was Lieutenant Gates drummed out for?” Edward asked. He already knew.

The captain’s sigh was filled with disappointment.

“Sodomy, I believe.” He finally admitted. He believed correctly.

“With?” Came the follow up.

Andrew blinked. His frown was deeply confused and he turned his eyes upwards to show it. One of his eyebrows arched and he laughed. “What?”

“ _Who_ with?” Edward clarified.

Suspicion flashed in those blue eyes below, Andrew daring to appear affronted by the implication. His sergeant’s expression remained neutral. Cold and collected, hiding the fear that scraped at the pit of his stomach. A tiny little beast that could grow massive in a heartbeat.

Depending on Andrew’s answer.

“I didn’t know Lieutenant Gates.” The blond repeated, turning back to his drink, “In _any_ capacity.”

He was telling the truth and it showed. In the blandness of his tone, the minor annoyance of a potential friendship he’d never know rather than an intimate one he’d lost. Edward kept his thankful exhale as quiet as possible.

“Nor do I know with whom he committed such an act.” The captain continued, “I merely mourn the loss of an experienced officer for such petty reasons.”

He pointedly exchanged the word ‘act’ for the usual ‘sin’. It was greatly appreciated.

Selfishly relieved, Edward squatted down beside his captain. One knee on the neatly laid floorboards – everybody else got packed dirt – and a hand supporting himself against the table leg. He knelt for his superior, waited desperately for him to look down. And look down Andrew did, without any distaste or leer.

He looked vulnerable, despite being the one sat above his company. The alcohol had loosened his necktie and tongue somewhat.

“I don’t believe a man should be left out in the cold to starve for who he chooses to bed.” He breathed, voice lowered as if ashamed of the statement, “Is that so wrong?”

A radical sentiment in some circles. It had Edward smiling. Justice ran in the Haldane bloodline, despite its potentially inherited curse. He shook his head in response.

“We should show compassion to our brothers in arms.” Andrew continued, huffing the words with anger directed outside their lodgings.

He took a heavy swig of his drink. He finished it in a single gulp and rattled the table where he put it down.

“Do y’ have any brothers, captain?” Edward asked.

His smile was soft, encouraging palatable conversation. Coaxing revelations out of the room, distracting from the morning’s parade.

“No.” His captain laughed, “No sisters either.”

“Any children?” The sergeant probed. At this point, he would bet his life on the answer being _no_.

After a pause, fingers fiddling with the rim of his cup, Andrew replied. “I would never bring a child into a world ravaged by war.”

He looked almost mournful. He considered for a moment longer, eyebrows rising and falling as he indulged himself in a silent conversation all his own.

“Not that I’m capable of fathering any children.” He said eventually. “Without a wife.”

He needn’t have bothered with the addition. Between him and his company, nobody in the room required the false clarification.

He wasn’t fooling anyone.

“Well, that makes two of us.” Edward chuckled.

He reached up and patted his captain’s knee. Twice, the third fall of his palm laid permanently to rest against Andrew’s thigh. Through his breeches, his skin felt warm. The sergeant considered retracting his grip, fearing his fingers might be too cold. He was suddenly embarrassed, biting his lip in momentary regret.

He needn’t have been; the blond’s hand came down to rest atop his own. Edward looked up at his love again, their eyes meeting, blue on blue.

They’d had this conversation before, the two of them. Three times, always with the smell of alcohol in the air. (Though this instance had a lot less of it, barely a cupful warming one of their throats, rather than the roaring drunk they’d both been before.) And they weren’t in the privacy of a home, merely the makeshift quiet of an army hut.

If only they could’ve had this talk sooner. Then Edward could have held his captain’s hand during that painful parade.

He held his hand now. Their fingers wove together, gripping tightly.

Like his original incarnation – who had been younger than he was now, as Edward had, when they’d discussed this the first time – Andrew had to tear his eyes away. Not in shame, much to Edward’s comfort, but in bashfulness. Pink brushed his cheeks and his gaze wandered to his empty cup. His smile was tight, forced down so it wouldn’t reveal his excitement too obviously.

Edward remembered being the same, the first time. He’d been unable to look Andrew in the eye that entire evening, back at the shop in Andover, even when the blond had kissed his neck so passionately. (Trying to keep up appearances of acceptable, courtly romance was so tiresome. Conveniently, their romance was neither.)

He wasn’t that man anymore. He was older and wiser and he could squeeze the hand in his with the confidence of three lifetimes.

“You should rest.” He said.

He also, after three lifetimes, wasn’t in any hurry. That made one of them.

Edward stood, moving to ready his captain’s bed. Not for himself; he’d return politely to his twelve-man enlisted hut. If he were wanted, he’d be called upon some other time.

Andrew wanted him now. His grip on the sergeant’s hand held firm and he pulled his company back towards the table. The captain stood up with the movement, his stool loudly scraping the floor.

They were left toe to toe, chests brushing, and their hands clasped tightly together. The shadows of the firelight cast deep lines across the blond’s features. He looked like he had in Greenbrier. The flames in his eyes flickered over the confidence that had erupted there.

Edward watched and waited. He was smiling.

Familiar fingers buried themselves in long, curly hair, drawing their lips together. Their first kiss, Sergeant Jones supposed. In this life, at least.

Valley Forge felt a lot warmer after that.

Edward would have stayed there forever with Andrew, until the war’s end and onwards. Anywhere he could hold even a fraction of hope the man would be safe. He considered it at length, staring up at the ceiling of the hut he built, on the bed he built, during the career he’d built, all for his captain.

Blond hair tickled his chest, warm breath running over the skin of his throat. His fingers tangled in those locks while his love slept peacefully in his arms. Warmed by their naked skin pressed close, guarded by a loyal sergeant.

He kissed Andrew’s forehead with a heavy heart and a quiet sniff.

They should go back to Greenbrier County.

 _Should_ , but couldn’t. There was no running from this fight. Andrew would never.

“Your captain,” Andrew asked one morning, “Did you lose him to the French?”

He was pulling his boots on as daybreak came knocking on the door. The air was brisk and he’d grumbled himself awake, complaining that he needed to take a piss. All of which came together in a casual affair, his words holding no more weight than the steam from his breath.

Edward sat bolt upright in their shared bed.

“What?” He demanded. Aggressively, desperate to know what prompted the question.

No prompt was present. Andrew stopped his motions, one boot still in hand, and turned to face his lover. His frown was soft and drawn with the lines of concern.

His sergeant swallowed meekly. The lump in his throat was forced back down, taking his secrets with it. For a moment, he’d thought his captain remembered something from before.

“You were particularly sour at the feu de joie.” Andrew explained.

Ah, yesterday’s celebration. The whole camp had participated in the firing line, all in honour of their alliance with France. God save King Louis. (Hilarious, that one.)

The observation was right; Edward had been very sour about the affair. The blond waited patiently for confirmation, from the horse’s mouth itself. His sergeant handed it over with a disappointed sigh and averted eyes.

“Yes,” He said, reluctance tying a weight to his tongue, “They took him from me.”

He wouldn’t dwell on it. Not with a beautiful, radiant resurrection perched on the bed beside him. An incredible incarnation that placed a hand on his thigh, patting the muscle reassuringly.

Not one to ruin an otherwise good morning, Edward shrugged.

“At least we got an extra gill a’ rum outta it.” He chuckled.

Good riddance to King George and good riddance to Valley Forge.

They marched together to Monmouth and a waiting stalemate.

“What you writin’?” Edward asked.

He sat illuminated by a crackling fire, chewing on a short supply of tobacco. The sun had already set on Monmouth’s battlefield and night had overtaken them. They had settled down in the aftermath, camped just one mile from the equally exhausted enemy. (They didn’t know that yet.)

Despite the darkness, Andrew had taken to penning a letter against his knee. With most of their comrades retired, it was just them around the flames.

“I’m requesting leave to visit my wife in Massachusetts.” He said, dotting another comma. “It will most likely be denied.

Glancing over from beside him, Edward released a fond chortle. Full of disbelief and scolding.

“ _Really_.” He replied, half a question, half an accusation.

When his captain returned his gaze, he looked quite serious. Amused as well, but without any hint of a lie. He turned the paper towards his company, showing the neatly scrawled words. Edward declined with a grunt and a wave of his hand, setting the writing back against the officer’s knee. Andrew should know better by now.

“I’m married to Edith Jones.” He explained.

“Who’s that?” The sergeant asked stupidly.

He was preoccupied by spitting out his tobacco and taking the pan off the fire. He poured the hot water into the tin cups he’d prepared, already half filled with rum and molasses. Hot drinks for a cold night. It made their ration stretch further.

“Your sister.” Andrew said.

He was smiling as he reached out to take the cup offered him. Edward responded with a frown and refused to release the drink. Their fingers touched and it wasn’t romantic, both men holding the item in a stubborn stalemate.

“I don’t have a sister.” The sergeant said.

“You do now.” His captain replied.

Carefully, Edward’s grip on the cup released. His confused frown remained as he bent down to retrieve his own. The flavour was weak but the heat on his throat was divine. He sipped dutifully, turning back to face his counterpart. The officer hummed, delighted, as he took in a mouthful.

“Mnn, thank you, Ed.” He muttered, “That’s excellent.”

The sweet talk couldn’t quell his love’s hard stare.

“Go back t’ you fuckin’ my imaginary sister.” Edward demanded, unimpressed by whatever was unravelling.

He wasn’t sure what this was all about. Truthfully, he suspected it was a joke at his expense. Many a man took great pleasure in mocking his simplicity, his poverty, his illiteracy. Never Andrew, but there was a first time for everything, he’d learned.

His captain, naturally, provided a different explanation.

“ _During my last requested leave, of August 1777, I married Edith Jones of Greenbrier County, Virginia_.” He recited, proudly declaring his love for their fictious lady, “ _Sister to Sergeant Edward Jones of the Massachusetts Second_.”

He took another swig of his drink. His free hand was rolled in a circular motion, indicating the lines he was choosing to skip.

“Lovely ceremony, etcetera, etcetera.” He hummed as he found the bottom of the page, “ _Should I be so blessed as to give my life in service of my country, I expect my dearest Edith’s only brother, Edward, to return her a widow to Virginia, as I have been troubled with no siblings of my own, nor parents who survive to care for her_.”

The smirk he turned his sergeant’s way was full of cold humour and self-deprecation.

“A great many words, I’m aware.” He chuckled.

Edward was left unamused. Outwardly, his features were vacant, lost in the pale eyes he gazed upon. A softness had relaxed his brow, his half empty cup forgotten in his lap. It was growing cold in the darkness, the popping of the firepit desperately trying to warn him of its impending chill.

He understood the joke now. (He felt wretched for suspecting Andrew might have been mocking him. He should know better.)

“Why?” He whispered, the question riding on his exhale.

His captain’s smile turned kind.

“While I have every intention of following you beyond this war, wherever you choose to go,” He said, eyes drifting down to his cup, “I want to be able to provide for you, as you did for me, if there is any chance that I…”

The warm tones of his voice drifted away on the breeze. The flames crackled in their stead, the canvas of the tent behind them rattling in the wind. It seemed like they were the only ones in the camp still awake.

How fortunate. Soldiers often said melancholy things in the wee hours of the night.

He didn’t need to finish. Edward had already reached out and grasped his hand.

Even amidst the savagery of war, five years in Andrew’s company was apparently too grand a gift to receive unchallenged. Happiness was a temporary lodging and the Lord found that Edward Jones had overstayed his welcome.

They were moving goods through New Jersey. Through a dangerous, frequently raided, strategically important area. It was 1779.

Andrew rode a horse as well as his previous incarnation. Edward was proud to march beside him. That hadn’t changed.

Other things had.

When the British started firing from the treeline, their small contingent was unprepared. Blindsided, entire rows of men fell at the first sound of gunfire. Andrew’s horse took the next volley and its rider leapt from its back in time to avoid being crushed. He was back on his feet quickly, death lowering its hands in disappointment as its prey chose to fight on.

Edward returned fire, only glancing his captain’s way to assure he was upright again. Their time in Massachusetts had set his heart marching to a soldier’s drum again, focusing on reloading his musket and rallying their company above all else.

Andrew shouted his name along with an order to form ranks.

It was a command quickly forgotten.

In the smoke and cries of the wounded, Edward blinked. He looked towards that voice and remembered a battle long ago. Not Bunker Hill or Monmouth or any other recent affair. A place somewhere on the opposite side of their hopeful country.

That voice had been there. And it had been finite. All of this was finite, he remembered, for everyone but him.

Fear was an insidious thing.

It reared its ugly head at the worst moments. It brought reality rushing back to him, as another soldier dropped with a whimper at his feet. He glanced down and saw the poor boy choke on his own blood.

He could see Andrew’s outline through the smoke. He ran for him.

He deserved the sword his captain almost plunged into his gut for breaking ranks, mistaking him for a charging enemy in the fog. Andrew’s eyes were wide for a moment, the blade stopping just short of piercing skin. It tore the sergeant’s uniform before his hand shoved it away.

Edward pushed his superior aside, putting his body between the gunfire and his love.

“Get behind me!” He snarled.

He was not getting this wrong a second time. He would not react slowly; he would not make the same mistakes. If no shot could hit him here, then no shot could pierce Andrew. Determination fuelled by a curse’s hindsight had him ignoring the hand on his shoulder, demanding explanation. He shook it off as he rammed another shot down his barrel.

“What the Hell are you doing, Edward?!” Andrew barked, brandishing his sword.

“Saving you!” Edward shouted back.

He was so sure of himself.

How many coincidences did it take to make a fact?

Every shot had missed him thus far.

He was ashamed of the cry he let out when a musket ball ripped through his side.

Just above his hip, through the soft flesh below his ribs. It dropped him to one knee, pathetic at his captain’s feet. Defeated, grovelling like a dog and howling like one too. The pain bubbled as the blood did, his musket firing blindly where it clattered to the floor. Its shot flew into the trees and sent the last of the birds soaring into the sky.

He felt an agony he’d never appreciated, a thousand lashes under his skin, ripping at his muscles to be let out. He couldn’t hear for the ringing in his ears, couldn’t see for the smoke. He felt nothing besides the pain and then a strong grip around his chest.

Andrew had taken hold of him, hoisting him upwards and supporting his weight. Carrying the man who tried so stupidly to protect him. Had he the voice to say it, Edward would have demanded the officer leave him. Retreat with the rest of their company, leave the supplies and run.

When had Captain Haldane ever been the type to flee a battlefield?

Edward knew the answer and still persisted in wishing otherwise.

Because of his sergeant’s overconfidence, Captain Andrew Haldane was unable to disengage and retreat from the skirmish.

He surrendered with his remaining thirty-two men, eleven of them wounded, to the British lieutenant that had bested him in combat. He presented his sword like a gentleman.

Unable to stand on his own feet while he watched, Edward was held upright by two privates. He had never felt so ashamed.

He should have learned in Boston that he healed no quicker than any ordinary man.

The doctor who stitched his wound this time had neither fiery red hair nor a kind word to spare him. No alcohol to ease the pain either and that was the real tragedy of the three.

He was seen to on a church pew at the nearest settlement in British-held territory. This time, such a building brought him physical pain along with spiritual. The sting of the hook that sewed his flesh back together was far from imagined. He bit down on his tongue to muffle his whimpers.

Through his delirium, he thought he heard discussion of transport to a prison ship. Excluding him and the other eight wounded. (Three were dead by then.)

Bloody fingers grabbed the doctor’s shirt. They stained it no further than it already was so the sergeant gave no apology. The stranger eyed his grip carefully, suspicious of the intent. He paused in his stitching.

His patient’s fist pulled weakly, beckoning him down. The doctor obliged what he assumed to be a dying man, leaning closer to hear his last confession.

“Five pounds.” Edward grunted, forcing the words through pain and gritted teeth.

“Pardon?” The stranger whispered.

“Five pounds.” His patient repeated, “If you tell ‘em I’m fit t’ walk.”

A surgeon’s word went a long way, the voice of law on such matters. He would be the decider on any split in their captives’ ranks.

The doctor narrowed his eyes, glancing down at the wound beneath his instrument. It had come to oozing now, still a gaping hole that had punctured straight through the man. Odds of survival were slim, terrible without rest and proper care.

“You’ll die.” The stranger said. His tone was not mournful.

“I’ll die w’ my own.” His patient replied.

Strange, what enemies could respect in times of war. A moment’s pause was followed by the doctor’s respectful nod. A single lowering of his head, an agreement and acknowledgement. Recognition of what would definitely be a dying wish.

Valour, some might call it.

Edward released his grip. He fumbled with his hand, shaking as he reached for his spats. He gave up quickly and simply pointed. Laying the hooked needle against his chest, the doctor reached down and dipped his fingers under his patient’s calf.

Between the fabric, he drew what he’d been promised. The crumbled paper was slid silently into his pocket. He returned to his stitching.

“I will strap you up as best I can.” The doctor said.

From his wooden bed, Edward nodded gratefully.

Prisoners of war, a term unfamiliar on Edward’s tongue, need not worry about finding lodgings for themselves or their compatriots. The enemy would provide.

Lucky for Andrew and himself, space had recently opened up on the H.M.S Jersey, moored in New York harbour.

Apparently, the resident turnover was quite rapid.

Hell was a place of brimstone and fire. That was how the pastor at Andover had described it. (Not that Andrew, presently, would remember such terrible sermons. It wasn’t a memory Edward thought enviable to possess but possess it he did.)

In the depths of a prison ship, there was no fire, not even lamps. There was a sense of misplaced gratitude for this, at first. A knowledge that they were both alive, however unpleasantly.

They sat against the floor, backs to the wall. It was a privilege to have something to lean against, afforded to an officer and his wounded compatriot.

The fire came in other ways.

Sunshine erupted with summer and the heat permeated the walls. No need for lamps in the scorching light of day. Every man stripped naked willingly but it did precious little to curb the sweat. The stench was thick enough to chew on. Edward wished that it literally was, the hunger gnawing his stomach reminding him of a trapped rat.

Andrew’s damp, burning temple rested against his shoulder. Unkempt blond hair stuck to both their skin, their chests rising and falling heavily in a shaky rhythm. Edward fought hard to keep his tremors at bay, the remnants of his wound continuing to haunt him.

Andrew tended to him every day, come Hell or highwater. He bartered for salt to make brine, took a beating from their guards for it, then went back and tried again. He washed the contorted flesh and tore his shirt to make clean bandages. He cut his ration in half to force feed his sergeant extra.

He was a saint beyond measure. A fact as true as it was in 1718.

Edward had tearfully begged him to stop. Even if this felt exactly as he imagined dying did, he was certain it wouldn’t kill him. (Almost certain. Sometimes when he awoke in a fit of violent shudders, his fever getting the better of him, he wondered if he _could_ die.)

That weight against his shoulder, the thigh pressed stickly against his own, always brought him through. The sensation of being intimately close, even in the heat and filth of their floating prison, reminded him what he sticking around for.

They watched together as another two shrivelled bodies were dragged out of the cramped room. One had been left to rot for three days, three tally marks scratched into the wall behind their heads. The spectacle didn’t last, the corpses disappearing out of sight.

They went back to watching the lice, crawling beneath their leg hair.

“At least we don’t have to shave for inspection anymore.” Andrew muttered against his neck.

They both chuckled quietly, ignored in the shadows of their corner. The captain’s shackles clinked as he brought his hand up, patting his company’s thigh reassuringly. Even the iron around his wrist felt warm. Not a cold surface in sight.

Edward let his head fall back against the wall with a thud. His smirk was crooked.

“At least I can bagpipe you here without anybody carin’.” He muttered back.

The gurgle of a laugh in Andrew’s throat was worth the crudeness, not that it was a lie. Men got surprisingly friendly in nice weather and close quarters.

“Well, how else are we supposed to pass the time?” The captain asked, letting a sigh brush his company’s neck.

Their hands had found each other, intertwined against Edward’s bare thigh. He squeezed the fingers in his as he glanced down at the other man. The tears in his eyes were old, held back from the moment he’d taken that shot to his side. He had yet to let them fall.

He was so, so sorry. This was his fault and the ache he felt was deserved. Every pain in his flesh and across his skin and down his throat was deserved.

Andrew smiled up at him weakly. He’d aged years in months, the bags under his eyes heavy and dragging his features down to the depths. He squeezed their fingers together in silent reply and used his free hand to briefly stroke his love’s cheek.

He shouldn’t be enduring Edward’s punishment.

Each night they were ferried from the upper decks and locked in the hold. There was no light down there, beyond the moon’s rays that managed to seep between the cracks.

And every night, just before their march into the dark, Andrew would fill their two tin cups with water. (Sometimes, if fit or stubborn enough to stand, Edward would hobble to fetch it. His hand would clutch his side all the way.)

The suffocating heat that wiped out many of their fellows was kept at bay by this ritual. One of Andrew’s immaculate creation, devising a plan to show them through this awful experience.

Edward wasn’t so smart.

His water would always be gone by the early hours, unable to sleep and consumed by thirst. His heavy gulps would leave him frowning into the bottom of an empty cup, a depth deeper than Hell were the dry metal stared back. It would drive him close to tears.

A fumbling hand, guided by the slivers of moonlight, would take the cup from him. Andrew would refill it carefully, pouring water from his own ration. His sergeant had stopped protesting after the first time, when he’d accidently knocked the cups and deprived them both of water for the night.

His captain always had some to spare for him whenever he ran out.

“How’d y’ do it?” Edward croaked, noticing the pattern in his ineptitude and the other man’s skill.

Andrew’s smirk was prideful, a sin anywhere but across his features. Momentarily returned to his former glory, poorly cut beard and matted hair notwithstanding.

“I count.” He said softly.

Lifting his cup for indication – a silent instruction of ‘watch’ – he brought the water to his lips. His throat barely moved as he took a small, dignified sip. The demonstration ended and he lowered the object, returning it to the darkness of his lap.

“That’s a hundred and forty-eight.” He said.

Running a tongue over his cracked lips, Edward mimicked the motion. Brought the water to his parched mouth and took an almost-as-dignified sip. He lowered it away reluctantly. Andrew watched with a smile.

“One.” Edward muttered.

His captain chuckled. He reached over and clinked their cups together lightly.

“Cheers.” He said.

The winter came eventually. It was no relief.

The prisoners trapped in Jersey’s hold awoke covered in snow, blown in through the grates that had replaced the portholes. The morning light was white and unsympathetic.

Edward had an arm around his captain’s waist, his shivers keeping them both from getting much sleep. The shirt that covered Andrew’s chest was his sergeant’s, finally accepted after a hissed argument.

The captain had given his clothes up for a wounded subordinate, the least he could do was take the returned favour silently. He’d argued with every hoarse breath he could manage.

“Mornin’.” Edward laughed against the blond’s ear. The words drew steam from his lips, the trembling of his body knocking them into a stammer. “Think we’ll get a nice breakfast today?”

His smile was forced around gritted teeth. Any humour would do, to keep up the impression that he was alright. That his aching wound had healed, that the yellow, rotted scar held no infection. That the lice he brushed from his captain’s shoulder weren’t leaving bites across already ruined skin.

“C’mon,” The sergeant huffed, “I’m sure it’ll be delicious.”

His received no reply.

Andrew had hidden his affliction well. He never complained about anything.

For months after, huddled alone and cold in the dark, Edward would wonder what disease, hunger, or exhaustion had killed him.

Captain Andrew Haldane of the Massachusetts Second Regiment was requested for a prisoner exchange in the January of 1781. The request was denied on account of his death, one month prior.

When he closed his eyes, Edward could see Andrew’s features. As clearly as he felt the tears on his cheeks.

He tried his best, with a shackled hand against his face for cover, to imagine earlier incarnations of the man. Of the blushing shopkeeper, playing with the water of their shared bath, his back against the tub as he spoke of their future together. Or of that experienced officer, just a lieutenant then, dismounting his horse and laughing as he swooped down his hat in a romantic flourish.

Instead, Edward saw a starving, sweating, dying man’s smile.

He saw a hand reaching over to pat his shoulder in the dim morning light. He saw a body wasting away, wracked by fever. He saw tin cups. He saw snow.

The chains on his wrists jingled the merry march of a battle well lost. He trembled with anguish and pain, his wound and stomach and gut stirring in three separate agonies. There was blood seeping through his tattered breeches.

Edward cried and buried his face downwards into his hands. He couldn’t even provide a grave this time.

In 1783, Sergeant Edwards Jones was released from British captivity.

He stumbled onto the deck of the H.M.S Jersey and shied away from the sunlight that met him there. God sent blinding rays against his eyes, a final attempt to claw them out. Joke was on the omniscient bastard; no pain could compare to what he’d found in the depths of that hold.

A little burning in his retinas was worth the sight of a clear sky. A horizon he would never, ever be letting go of again.

He was the longest surviving prisoner of the ship by miles. Almost four years and still breathing, when most men died in a matter of months.

It was not an achievement he held dear.

New York City was an up-and-coming political hub. A powerful, influential, beautiful seat in a new, instrumental, world-shaking country. In New York, you could be a new man.

Edward didn’t fucking care. He had to get out of there.

There was one stop he needed to make, then he would be off. Fuck New England and the north east. Edward was done with it, Massachusetts in particular. He was never, ever coming back.

He stood on the shore of Wallabout Bay. Bodies lined the sand, some half buried, some left in rows by their retreating foes. Nobody knew what to do with these dead men, prisoners freed by death. All decked out in the tatters of every state uniform under the sun.

Edward knew Andrew wouldn’t be among them. The captain had either been tossed overboard and sunk to the deep or long since rotted away under the sands. He combed the shore anyway.

He must have looked quite the spectacle, thin and hobbling, dressed in a borrowed coat and without boots. A mad man, squinting down at battered and bloated corpses with distain. He was thankful he didn’t find what he was looking for.

With a sharpened stone, he scratched his repentance into the stonework of the beach wall. He remembered the letters from long ago, scratched into a church wall.

‘Andrew Haldane’ he carved, ‘1755 – 1780’.

The last of his tears were shed there, his knees in the mud and his temple pressed against the stones. He sobbed and he cussed under his breath and he wished he were dead.

The Second Massachusetts Regiment was disbanded at West Point. Edward arrived just in time.

He shook hands with new officers, new captains, that he’d never met. Their eyes followed his fragile form with concern. Every step he took was shaky, a limp forced on by an infected wound and a malnourished body. Any other man wouldn’t be able to stand. Any other man would be dead.

Any other man would demand compensation.

Edward asked to stand on parade with the rest of the company. To shoulder his firelock in fingers straining to hold its weight. He managed. He held his back straight and he breathed heavily and he managed. Staying upright in front of the last soldiers he ever hoped to see.

A young lieutenant – blond, a warm shade over slight curls – requested to speak with him in the building they were using. Once a modest farmhouse, owned by dedicated Tories. Now property of the Continental Army, soon to be some lucky man’s bounty for his service.

Edward refused to sit in the chair offered. To his credit, the young officer dutifully remained standing in response.

“I’d like t’ be on m’ way, sir.” The sergeant explained.

His lack of patience must have shone through. The lieutenant nodded and cut to the chase. He could respect the obvious signs of a former prisoner, even if he couldn’t meet the man’s gaze. (Or linger too long on the hollows of his cheeks, the thick hair of his beard, the overgrown curls barely held back by a dirty cord. The ponytail there was reaching halfway down his back.)

“I can offer you no bounty, Sergeant.” The officer said. His sadness was genuine. “I have… little to offer, compensation wise. I only hope you have some other suggestion I might provide.”

His smile was stiff when his gaze finally met Edward’s. There, he found a hardened stare and no light reflected in sunken eyes. A moment of consideration flashed across those features.

“What I’m owed,” He said. “From before.”

The lieutenant sighed, unimpressed that he would have to repeat himself. He was cut off.

“M’ gear.” Edward demanded, “Haversack, canteen, a blanket.”

The list was ordinary beyond compare. Everything carried by those outside, every soldier in their new union. Thousands of identical items spread across the states, all about worthless.

“A weapon, bayonet for fixin’.” It went on. “Some shot, too, if it ain’t too much-!”

He stopped as the officer held up a hand. The lieutenant spoke with a tone of barely stifled pity. “Consider it done.”

He was a man of repetition if nothing else.

The path he walked was predictable, the destination absolute by virtue of him having nowhere else to go. Leaving New York, a place he might recreate himself anew, was an act of self-destruction akin to putting another pistol to his head.

This wasn’t a misfire.

Edward hated the journey the most. It was painful in a thousand little ways and full of people.

He was content to walk the vast distance back to Greenbrier, despite how his legs protested. This wasn’t his decision to make, apparently. Everybody else wanted him to take a cart, a horse, a ride, a lift. Anything to take the weight of this poor, skinny man’s feet. They would insist, beg, bribe, what it took to get him to sit on their wagons or rest in their establishments.

Their unwilling charity case loathed the kindness. Every sympathetic word set his teeth on edge, forcing polite growls from his throat in response. He declined firmly and made a point of adjusting the musket against his shoulder.

That was the first part of his march. By the time he crossed into Pennsylvania, he was struggling.

His stops were infrequent and he slept under many a poorly constructed tent. Sticks and rope kept out the elements like spit could hold bricks together, leaving his arms wrapped around his chest and his shivers rocking him to sleep. He’d wake up every damn morning without fail.

When he overestimated the distance he could walk in a day – which he frequently did – he’d be forced to interact with other human beings. Taverns were acceptable, if only because patrons were drunk enough not to bother the bearded stranger who warmed his hands on their hearth.

Barkeeps stared at the twisted and irritated skin around his wrists when he wasted money on a drink. They’d shy away from the dark, mean glare he replied with. His lip would curl, inching closer to a snarl.

If they wanted a stomach turning, they should see his torso.

As deeply as he loathed it, pity sure got him a lot of free drinks.

His legs gave out just before the Virginia border. He hit the dirt with a smack and screamed “Fuck!” weakly to the sky, letting his eyes follow the word. Upwards, to the clouds beyond the branches.

No angelic sunshine rekindled his hope and faith anew, sending him a glorious sign. All he saw was endless, cloudy blue.

But the Heavens didn’t open and dump freezing rain on his head either, so fair enough.

Edward shut his eyes and sighed. His musket became a walking stick, used to drag his shaking body back onto his feet. He cracked his neck and continued his hobbling. His pace slowed considerably after that.

Until the sound of hooves slowed beside him, revealing large cartwheels on the road. He kept his eyes forward and picked up as much speed as he could muster. The horse was spurred to walk again, struggling to match his pace it was so slow. Its driver kept having to pull on the reigns to keep from overtaking him.

“Excuse me, sir.” The stranger said, “May I ask where y’ headed?”

With an exhausted role of his eyes, Edward spoke to the road ahead.

“Virginia.” He answered.

“I can see that.” The driver said.

His bluntness was refreshing, a cool breeze on pained skin. There was no malice nor pity in his tone, only the slight lilt of exasperation. At the stubborn display before him; a soldier in tattered clothes and an unsightly beard, limping down the dirty track.

Chest heaving from his outburst of speed – if you could call it that – Edward had to stop and catch his breath. The cart stopped with him and he was forced to close his eyes, breathe deep, and accept defeat. The driver folded his arms over his knee, but he didn’t jump down from his seat to help.

“I’m heading back to North Carolina.” He said.

Edward grunted in response. Speaking was hard around his panting, his eyes turning upward to show some politeness. He was drawn instantly to the stranger’s dirty blond hair, combed back into a ponytail. His gaze stared at it dreamily for a second, before moving down to the unfamiliar features. Ones that certainly weren’t Andrew’s.

The driver looked down at him with an unimpressed stare, one thick eyebrow arched upwards, beckoning conversation.

“You’re welcome to jump in the back.” He said, looking over his shoulder.

His half-full cart beckoned, open back ready and willing for a perched traveller to enjoy. He made no further comment.

Edward instinctively shook his head. His mouth was dry and he didn’t feel like talking.

To his surprise, the stranger nodded understandingly. He tipped his tricorn.

“Suit yourself.” He said.

The reigns flashed and the horse’s hooves began walking again. The wheels creaked as they were pulled back into service, the soldier’s eyes watching as his chariot rolled out without him. He licked his lips, eyes following the neat wooden panels that could have been his throne for a short while.

He wouldn’t be making this mistake. Not even once.

“Wait, please!” Edward cried. His throat was hoarse and the sound didn’t carry too far.

The wagon stopped regardless.

The stranger watched silently as his hitchhiker threw his musket in, climbing onto the back with a heaving grunt and a rattling thud.

They started moving again.

He must have looked quite the sight, sitting on the back of that man’s wagon. Brow bent into a deep, cutting line across his eyes and something close to a pout on his lips. Humiliation burned behind his eyes, his jacket held tightly to his chest against the chill. Legs dangling over the road that passed beneath his feet, trees rolling endlessly away on either side.

Every bump in the track rattled him and he almost fell off twice. It sent tremors of pain up his chest, flowing from his wounded side. He didn’t dare lift his dirty shirt, take a real look at what lurked beside his belly.

That stranger took him quite the way, far over the Virginia border. He asked few questions and didn’t bother his ride-along. Whenever they stopped, he let the soldier sleep in the stables he’d rent for his horse and would bring a cup of water for him in the mornings.

Edward was in his debt.

All while cities fell away to towns, and towns fell away to hamlets. Civilisation grew more distant with every passing moment. Good, that was what he was counting on.

They parted ways halfway through Virginia. One would be heading west, the other continuing south.

Taking his musket off the cart, Edward took the time to approach his kindly driver. The man leant on his knee once more, in no hurry to take off. He waited patiently.

“Thank you.” The curly haired man managed.

He couldn’t rightly express how deep the sentiment ran. Further than just the ride, for sure, into the territories of unexpected respect and decency.

The driver merely nodded.

“You’re a good soldier.” He said.

He meant it. Whatever _it_ was, Edward wasn’t quite sure. That unknown brought an ache to his throat, an urge to swallow hard and blink away something in his eyes.

The display of weakness was interrupted by the stranger, who extended his hand down. His company gratefully took what was offered, gripping it tightly.

“Edward Jones.” He said with a nod.

“John Burgin.” Came the reply.

Their hands parted and the cart rattled back into motion. Edward walked the rest of the way to Greenbrier.

He found his cabin, abandoned and dishevelled, a perfect reflection of its owner. Nobody had laid claim to it after all these years. They’d looted it instead, before the elements did the rest. There wasn’t much to take so there wasn’t much missing.

There was a Goddamn hole in the ceiling.

Edward dumped his weapon, his haversack, and his coat inside. Then he went out the back, over to the water trough that had been collecting rain. He squatted down beside it, knees shaking at the effort.

Using his bayonet, he cut away that hideous beard of his. The curly hair floated on the surface of the trough, little boats spinning in the breeze.

What was a few shaving nicks compared to a musket wound anyway?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- A gay soldier was actually drummed out of the Continental Army at Valley Forge, his name was Frederick Gotthold Enslin.  
> \- A feu de joie (literally "fire of joy") is a celebratory gun salute involving firing in rapid succession down a line of soldiers.  
> \- "To bagpipe" is an old euphemism for a blowjob.


	4. Chapter 4

_**~~1774~~. 1807.**   
~~Boston, Massachusetts.~~ Commonwealth of Virginia, United States of America._

It had taken time to gather his strength.

To perch on that well-used bed of his (repaired after his absence) and slowly lift the fabric of his shirt.

There he’d found a mottled scar over discoloured skin. A hideous and huge thing, the flesh hollow beneath where the ball had taken a chunk out of him. For the first time, Edward was glad he didn’t own a mirror. Looking down was too much already.

He retched and threw up on the floorboards.

Resigned to the knowledge he had time to spare, he’d lowered his shirt back down and stood. There wasn’t much to clean up and he needed to fix the boards anyway.

That was sometime in 1784.

He was determined to recover himself - within the confines of that cabin, of course. In the house he’d built, where he would use the tools he’d made and the food he’d killed and the stubbornness he’d always shown to get better. Off his own back and on his own time. He’d get strong again, all on his lonesome, return to his former self.

Whoever that was. It didn’t matter.

Promises in the silence of a lonely home were hard to break.

‘Soldier’ became ‘trapper’ and ‘builder’ once again. He patched up the roof, stoked his hearth, and set about getting his shit together. Every day, he got out of bed and set himself to work. Gingerly, at first, wheezing and coughing at every turn. He’d spend hours resting and have to bring half-full pails from the creek, use the cabin walls for support when he moved about. He fell on his face more occasions than he’d admit.

That would turn to getting up stiffly within a couple of years. Then getting up normally, as any other man would.

It was a pity the scars from Boston and New Jersey remained. After a decade, his muscles had filled out again and his cheeks had their colour, but there was no helping the ugliness over his back, side, and wrists.

Such were the bodies of old men. And _old_ Edward Jones was.

He turned one hundred in that cabin of his.

(Not the same one he’d met Lieutenant Haldane in, nor come back to after his second taste of war. He’d had to tear that hunk of shit down eventually. It had served him well for many years, with a patched roof and repaired furniture, but nostalgia only went so far. He’d built a bigger, better home over its foundations, with a brick chimney and all.)

He watched his one hundredth year pass without ceremony. Sitting on his porch, chewing on some Virginian tobacco.

He couldn’t recall much of note or even what kind of year that had been. His news came from the same sources as ever – albeit his original ones would all be long dead – the strangers who passed by his door.

What did he remember of 1791, then. Quebec took an axe down the middle. Thrilling news for someone who never wanted to step foot on land owned by the French _or_ the British. A couple of massacres, homefield and far afield. Couple of revolutions, far afield only. Their new capital city, in the middle of fucking nowhere, was officially named after some general everyone definitely hadn’t heard enough about. Good, fuck all those pretentious New England cities.

A meaningless year. Edward figured as much. It was meaningless to him too.

Celebrating his birthday had never been a custom to which he subscribed.

Reaching over his shoulder, he’d pulled his ponytail onto his chest. Inspected it, running calloused fingers against the strands. Brown, each one. Rusted lighter over summer, since he’d been working outside a lot. He’d planted a corn crop, it was coming along nicely, beside a couple of apple seeds.

The former was presently filling his old drying house with golden cobs and the latter making up several fully grown trees.

The most exciting thing had been dodging tax on the whisky he was quietly distilling behind the outhouse.

All very trivial.

The turn of the century was exactly the same. A new era for humanity, a reset on every individual’s life. Mistakes washed clean by the change of a seven to an eight. Slap a couple of zeros on there and you were a new man.

No, he was not. He’d prove it.

By being the same stubborn, predictable, lonely drunk he’d been over fifty years prior. Waiting decades, twenty-four years in fact, before he even stepped foot outside Greenbrier county. The area served him well, leaving no reason to venture further than the local township.

Until 1807, when his musket broke.

It was a misfire, as per usual, only this time the gunpowder actually ignited. He’d been practicing his shooting, trying to set his record straight. (Six shots a minute had been a far call from the man who’d returned here. He could get off five nowadays.)

Smoke erupted from the barrel and the flintlock flew off. The Lord must have been looking elsewhere that day because it didn’t lodge directly in his eye. _Pity_.

Face blackened by the wreckage and brown hair singed, Edward inspected the broken weapon with distain.

“Fuck.” He spat.

The musket was tossed to the floor wearily. His fingers ran over his forehead, combing back burnt curls and leaving ash on his skin. His sigh was heavy enough to rattle the entire valley.

Guess it was time for another trip upstate. How he missed his original pistol, for all its villainy in keeping him alive. It had been a sturdy thing, misfiring by divine intervention rather than faulty design. Alas, the British kept it after his capture and he had no delusion he’d be getting it back.

Europeans certainly had taken a lot from him, hadn’t they.

Turned out, living alone in the middle of nowhere didn’t rake in much cash these days.

He remembered this when planning his first trip out of the county this century. Sitting at his sturdy wooden table, placed by the hearth, he watched the light sparkle off the coins on its surface. His fingertips pressed against each one in turn, sliding them from one measly pile to the other. This ritual had been repeated at least four times as he counted and recounted his earnings.

Total came to about five dollars.

Not enough for a musket. Maybe a pistol, if he was lucky, and leaving nothing for the coming winter.

Edward’s chin found his palm as he leant against the table. He continued to fiddle with the pathetic sum, skidding the metal pieces across the wood in distain. His sigh broke the dejected display, levering him back to slump against his chair. He reached for his cup of whisky instead.

If only he could have collected what he was owed, after eight years of continental service. He’d be minted.

A blink punctuated the connection of fleeting thought to forgotten memory. There had been something about that a while ago, over a decade in fact. Passing traders’ chatter, about furs, and ships, and riots, and pensions.

 _Pensions_ , that was it. Fulfilling the promises that had been conveniently made to rally more troops. All it took was a long walk into the city and then a man might stand before a government agent, pleading his case for many a year’s blood, sweat, and tears.

He’d heard you could do that now.

It was a long walk to Richmond, the closest place to claim a soldier’s dues. It couldn’t be helped.

Eighty bucks was eighty bucks.

Not the grandest of lotteries but worth the effort to claim. He could buy a new musket and a horse to carry it home with for that, with a little left to spare. He’d been looking to plant a new crop while fall was still around. He was considering potatoes.

The floppy, battered hat he wore didn’t have enough stiffness in its brim to turn up into a respectable tricorn. This concerned him for part of the journey, until he realised nobody else had their hats turned up at three angles anymore either.

Things had changed.

Supposedly, Edward had stood on trial before.

In a little court in Boston, wrists in irons and two unhappy soldiers pitted against him. It had been short and swift and not much of a show. Mainly because he’d immediately pleaded guilty and said nothing to defend his actions.

That felt like a thousand years ago.

And this current procedure was not a trial, it was an application process. Few differences could be noted; it was before a court, albeit a small one, consisting of several government agents seated against the back wall. The centre man was the only speaker, the rest there to sort through papers and hand him those selected. One of them was acting as scribe. It had a trial’s formality and required the applicant to swear an oath.

Edward’s fingers felt uncomfortably warm where they laid against the bible’s cover. Whether imagined or involuntary, the sensation was clear.

His hat was held in his hands and clasped tight enough to choke. Unable to read the records that the men before him held, he had to recite from memory. All the while, sunlight shone through the tall windows of the courthouse’s upper floor, this process relegated to one of its lesser rooms.

“I was in the Massachusetts Second.” He began, only to stop and scratch his curls, “I- er- Well, I was Thomas’ Regiment first, then Continental Twenty-third, then…”

His words slowed as a hand was waved dismissively his way. The rest of his drawl caught in his throat and had to be swallowed cruelly back down. His statement matched the papers he couldn’t read. No further discussion, please.

The rest of his descriptions went much the same.

A question sent his way in a bored tone, followed by a nervous answer that was cut before its completion. Satisfactory but never truly desired. Battles he fought in, the locations he wintered at, the place of his capture. (The last one had him staring at the floor.)

It would be worth it, he told himself religiously, shuffling his feet in deep discomfort. It would be worth it for those eighty dollars.

“Well, Mr. Jones,” The speaker confided with a short sigh, “We find no reason to doubt your claim to service. Under the terms of the 1778 resolution, you are entitled to your enlisted man’s gratuity of eighty dollars.”

Their applicant released a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. His weak smile and hasty gratitude’s were cut off by another matter.

“I assume you are here to collect Mrs. Haldane’s amount as well?” The speaker asked.

Edward was taken aback by the name, forced to reel his concern into just a frown, a twitch in his eye, and the smallest jerk of his head. “Pardon?” He grunted.

Holding the paper up to read from, the agent drawled on.

“ _Edith Haldane_.” He recited, “ _Formerly Jones. Sister to one Edward Jones of the Massachusetts Second._ ”

In his mind, Edward heard himself speak. Miles away from here, he said ‘I don’t have a sister’.

He could see the smile he’d received in reply, beautiful and vivid, like the firelight reflecting off blond hair. He remembered the tearing sensation he’d felt, of gratitude and love battling hurt and anger. The feeling of being handed a gift that was compassionate beyond measure yet filled with bad fortune. One he shouldn’t have to receive at all, if only men were kinder towards sinners like him.

He cleared his throat messily, hiding behind his hand.

“Yes. Of course.” He forced out, lowering his fist, “Sorry, she- She ain’t used that name in a while.”

Swap the pronoun and there laid an honest truth. He _hadn’t_ used that name in a while.

For all their stern disinterest, the men across the table sent him sympathetic looks. Which would be fucking hilarious, were the recipient not grappling with the shock and shame of the encounter. This felt like daylight robbery.

“I understand.” The agent said, moving swiftly on. “She never remarried?”

“No, sir.” The soldier replied. Trying to stay one step ahead and excuse his one-man attendance, he continued. “She’s still livin’ with me. She’s not well these days an’ couldn’t make the trip.”

God was testing him and, while his cheeks felt as if they were on fire, Edward was sinning with flying colours. His audience was nodding along, returned to disinterest as they continued to sift through the papers. Signing, scribbling, filling in everything that their visitor need not be concerned with. None the wiser to the terrible deception unfolding in their lap.

With their neat suits and pretty neckties, the story probably played right into their preconceived notions about their applicant. They probably thought he was in bed with her.

The strain on Edward’s jaw was immense, his teeth gritted hard where he held his urges to scream and laugh at bay.

“You will need proof of her marriage to Captain Haldane.” Came the next demand.

It brought his shoulders to the noose, dropping in a dismay that must have appeared across his features. His hands tightened where they gripped his hat, the coarse wool rubbing his sweaty palms raw.

“I ain’t got any papers for it…” He admitted sadly.

Strange that he suddenly felt a pull against his chest, a longing he didn’t fully understand and had never been there before. There wasn’t much Edward wanted in life, beyond a warm house and plenty of drink. He wasn’t one to yearn for a piece of paper, bearing two names that could never be placed together.

There was muttering amongst the jury table. Papers were shuffled, one pulled free triumphantly and handed to the centre speaker. His spectacled eyes scanned the wording beneath his fingers.

“Could you state the date of their union?” He asked.

Another memory flashed, a ray of sunlight through the trees attempting to fog Edward’s mind. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, brow cutting deeper as he cast a line back. Far, far down the twisting river that had led him here.

“August.” He said, “1777.”

His tired eyes drew open once more. They saw the man behind the table check the paper in his hand.

“Whilst a license would be preferred,” He said, removing his spectacles and handing them to his assistant to wipe, “This letter of requested leave may suffice in the case of an assumed common-law union.”

A letter, from an old friend no doubt. Behind another slow, painful blink, Andrew was writing against his knee. ‘I’m requesting leave to visit my wife in Massachusetts.’ He said, his quill dotting another comma.

He was such a smart man. Decades after the fact, with no money or estate left to leave his undeserving lover, he found a way to rectify Edward’s life. To bring a little comfort where there could be none, to think miles ahead of their cursed trajectory.

Around the lump growing bigger in his throat, threatening to suffocate him, the curly haired man choked out one word. “Pardon?”

Pausing his scribbling, the speaker of the board turned his gaze upwards. His stare was cold, unimpressed by the pathetic anguish he saw.

“The request on behalf of your sister has been approved.” He stated. He reconsidered a second later, huffing as he realised his mistake. His words were slowed to a moronic crawl, simplified down so even the stupidest child could understand. “She’ll get her money.” He drawled.

Every overenunciated syllable brought more blood rushing to Edward’s head. His inhale was deep, chest swelling with shame and pride and pain and elation. He wiped his eyes behind a hand he pretended was smoothing back his hair. Nobody else in the room was paying enough attention to notice. They had all returned to their documentation, closing away his file to be tossed back to whence it came.

“Thank you, sir.” Their applicant forced out, voice stiff from a man overwhelmed.

His gratitude was ignored.

Two hundred dollars, they handed him. Two hundred fucking dollars.

If he kept coming back for the next six years, he’d receive a hundred and twenty each time. The thought had him chuckling into his tavern mug, his seventh that evening. Filled with beer for a change, one pint for each year Captain Haldane’s widow received half-pay. He sipped them cheerfully.

His amusement was ignited by the slightest bitterness. Less against Andrew’s wages, soaring high above his own and deservedly so, than against Edith Jones herself. The fictious sister of his who received more in a year than he ever would.

With a shake of his head, Edward raised his cup and toasted the uninterested tavern owner. “Cheers.”

He went to the gunsmith’s first. (Second, really, after the tavern. That didn’t count.)

The afternoon was fading and Edward took off his hat.

The smell of oil and black smoke soothed him. He’d worked with many a man who smelt of such, reeked of it himself from time to time. This was the kind of place he might belong.

The bearded owner behind the counter seemed to think so. He smiled and gave a nodded greeting. Between his hands, he rubbed a filthy cloth that matched his apron.

“What can I do you for?” He asked.

Edward approached him after returning the nod, eyes briefly roaming the wall beyond the storefront. Guns of all lengths and prices lined the racks, stretching towards the backroom from which the heat and smell permeated.

His eyes fell on the Brown Bess. His gaze softened in recognition of a fallen comrade.

“Lookin’ f’ a musket.” He explained, turning back to his company, “Don’t recognise many a’ these though.”

He felt he could be honest here, sweat against his neck and his dirty clothes blending in nicely. Behind his counter, the gunsmith scratched his thick beard.

“Huntin’?” He asked.

Edward shrugged. Not when a well-placed trap would suffice for dinner. “Protection.”

His company chuckled, a deep rattle coming up from his broad chest. “Where y’ from, son?” He asked, like he already knew.

Greenbrier County wasn’t the reply he was looking for. Instead, his customer said; “Backcountry.”

What else to call it but what it was? It roused another laugh from the gunsmith, along with an understanding nod. Whatever he’d been weighing up, the answer had drawn him to a conclusion. His hand tapped the counter twice before he moved to the back wall.

“Y’ don’t want no musket.” He said. A heavy clunk echoed where he lifted a long, wooden piece from its mounted home. “Y’ want a rifle.”

The gun was laid out for his customer to see. The bearded man straightened up and folded his arms with pride. Never one to admire the prettiness of what he thought a tool, Edward could admit he stepped closer instantly. The polished wood was beautiful, his fingers tracing it along with the barrel.

“What’s the difference?” Edward asked. He tore his gaze from the weapon, sending the man a crooked smile. “Besides price.”

For his bluntness, he received another chuckle. The gunsmith’s fingertip tapped the rifle softly. He looked his customer in the eye when he spoke.

“You wanna walk right up to a man an’ drop him, I’ll get you that musket.” He confided, his voice low and excited, “But you wanna kill a man before he even knows y’ comin’? Buy a rifle.”

In New York you could be a new man.

In a city much closer, much less distasteful and much less important; you could be a pretty well-off man, instead. Enter Richmond a poor pension applicant and leave a minted son of a bitch with two hundred dollars to his name.

It felt joyful in a way Edward hadn’t imagined it would. Something about wearing fresh clothes; a shirt that was actually white and a coat heavy enough to keep out the chill. Nothing fancy, nothing to write home about if he could. Practical and cheap for city-dwellers, ordinary to them but beautiful to him.

He kept his hat. Old habits and all.

A new set of boots kept him in step with the horse he led out onto the southbound road, bid farewell by the first light of daybreak. That was the real treat, to have a strong beast to ride again. No prized stallion, just one that nuzzled his presented hand and made him smile a fraction. It carried a tidy pack behind its saddle, filled with salt and potatoes and half a pound of powder. (And his old clothes.)

Edward carried his rifle himself. He was too proud of the thing to let it out his hands.

Past the city limits, he pulled himself up onto that horse and rode his way south. He didn’t mind that he’d spent the night in Richmond or that he’d expended most of those two hundred dollars. He’d earned them and he’d used them well, there was nothing more money could do for him.

And he wasn’t going home yet. He wanted to venture towards the James River, follow it for as long as he could towards Greenbrier.

It wasn’t like he was in any hurry.

So he had no reason to head south to the river, no reason to follow it, and no reason to dismount to admire it. But dismount and admire he did, chewing his tobacco while he nudged stones beneath his boot. He’d set his loaded rifle against a nearby tree.

After a moment, he found a flat enough stone to send skipping across the shallows. The trees around him sheltered out the heatless sunshine and autumn breeze. The water would be cold, the chill beginning to creep into the air.

He watched the rock sink beneath surface after a single bounce, then reached down for another. Behind him, his horse snorted. It was laughing at him. He chuckled along, not particularly impressed by his skipping ability either.

It could be improved; he had the time. Arm pulled back, he prepared to send another stone across the water.

He didn’t manage it, stopping in his tracks as a jolly boat came floating by.

It shouldn’t have been a sight, rocking ever so slightly in the calm river. Its wood was polished and he was certain the well-carved wording across its rim said something important. With a moment of squinting, Edward thought he recognised the first three letters. Three large capitals that he knew he had seen before.

On British ships, there was no doubt. (He didn’t know the letters read ‘H.M.S’ nor what they stood for, but the image of the looming Jersey’s bow would never leave him. He didn’t need to understand the characters to feel cold dread against his spine.)

That certainty didn’t matter much, confusion already overtaking whatever hatred he might hold. Through the sparkling sunlight, he saw nobody rowing the boat. Nobody sitting in it at all.

An empty craft, floating merrily down the James River, washed along by the current. From his place on the shore, hands on his hips, Edward watched it drift away. He spat his tobacco as it passed.

“Hmn.” He grunted.

He received a soft whinny from behind him in response. With a snort of his own, he glanced back at the beast. He smiled genuinely, knowing he’d chosen the right companion.

“Strange, right?” He said.

Another huff through the horse’s nostrils prompted him to nod. Sad as it was that he’d resorted to talking to animals, he agreed with the verdict. A strange sight on an otherwise uneventful day.

Edward turned back to the river, determined to skip that rock in his hand. He wanted to get at least three jumps out of it before it sank.

He dropped the stone quickly. His voice escaped him without thought, a soft “ _Fuck-!_ ” as he let it slip back to the dirt.

His hands found his new coat, tearing the fabric from his shoulders. His stock tie was ripped from his throat, old waistcoat and floppy hat tossed aside with it. If dirt stained his modest clothes, he didn’t care.

He was too focused on the man in the water, floating quietly after what must have been his boat.

Face down. Unmoving.

Edward did not believe in fate. He believed in coincidence.

The water hadn’t been deep enough to dive in from the shore so there was no dramatic rescue on Edward’s part.

He waded in as fast as the river would allow, kicking off from the ground when he reached the deep. Swimming was definitely not one of his strong suits, a true pity that he’d never committed time to learning properly.

Survival, however, always had been. And always would be, God willing, so he kicked his sodden boots against the riverbed and paddled his way towards his destination.

Dragging an unconscious man out a river was harder than it looked. Edward managed. He dragged that deadweight of a person and he gulped in air when his head dipped below the water and _he managed_.

Once he reached the shallows, he could fall back on what he was good at; carrying heavy things over his shoulders. He made his way out the mud, his horse stomping its feet in apprehension as he did so. His saved stranger was laid against the shore as gently as possible, Edward falling to his knees beside the body.

A hand ran over his dripping brow as he caught his breath for a moment. Then he looked down.

Coincidence stared back at him, pale-faced and eyes closed. With the weight of the water soaking it, Andrew’s hair had looked brown in the river. He’d been unrecognisable until face up, skin an unhappy shade and droplets running over lifeless features.

Edward felt his teeth grind together, an unfamiliar anger firing in his veins.

“Aw, _no_.” He growled, speaking neither to Andrew nor his horse, “Don’t you _dare_.”

How drowning could be worse than rotting in a prison, taking a musket ball to the side, or cracking your skull on unforgiving ground, he couldn’t explain. Something about the accidental nature, the same one that had made the first incarnation’s demise so tragic.

Andrew Haldane was a man in control of his own destiny – to most extents – with his hands ever tight on the reigns. Falling out a shitty jolly boat and succumbing to a Virginia river was beneath him.

Edward pressed his knees into the mud and leant down, hands forcing themselves against the man’s ribs. He knelt in a prayer he dared not even think, desperate to appease the Heavens that refused to cast him downwards. When his thumping against that broad chest didn’t work, he bent over and forced his mouth over Andrew’s, breathing whatever air he could into his lungs.

Anger became fear, insidious as ever. The thought of being unable to revive the blond crossed dangerously over Edward’s mind, leaving a dark shadow in its wake.

Pulling back with a cuss, the trapper sucked in a deep breath. A final attempt, one determined to spin this sudden disaster back onto the righteous road.

He couldn’t get this wrong, not even once. He had to act fast; he couldn’t make a mistake. This would not be how it ended, before it had even begun.

Edward forced that desperate, dying gasp of air past Andrew’ lips, fingers fisted in the soaked shirt beneath him. His hands felt the shudder, the rumble of lungs refilled, a mind awakening. It brought a dry, guttural sob from his own chest, ripped free without embarrassment.

He was so happy to see Andrew splutter.

Water splashed from his mouth as he curled upwards, coughing and heaving the murky river back out. It came up reluctantly, but the blond was determined, rolling away from his saviour to throw up against the dirt. His damp shirt couldn’t cover his heavy panting, chest rising and falling with life once more.

A hand running through his dishevelled curls, Edward breathed his own sigh of relief. Deep and painful and settling, leaving him on his knees in the mud in eternal gratitude. A new certainty flashed behind his briefly closed eyes.

The Lord was merciful indeed.

Getting to his feet, Edward paused to look over the man still on the ground. His urge to return to his side, hold him close, had to be valiantly fought off. This was exactly like the last time and he had to remember, make peace with the facts of the situation.

This Andrew didn’t know him yet. Might never know him, should he choose to give his thanks and then disappear on his way.

The circumstances of his arrival weren’t clear but certain items – the British jolly boat, for starters – gave Edward hope for a favourable outcome.

What he could do was fetch his coat. He found it crumpled by his hat, waistcoat, and tie. He tucked those three under his arm, returning carefully to his stranger’s side. The blond had sat up, which was promising, knees bent and his elbows resting against them. He was clenching and unclenching his hands as he forced his breathing to level out.

Smart man.

Slowly and tentatively, Edward moved his coat around Andrew’s shoulders. He squatted down to secure it there, silently fixing it in place. Those previously wringing fingers came up instinctively, drawing the jacket closer against the chill. The trapper smiled.

“Thank you.” Andrew coughed.

His voice was different than before. Hoarse due to the water, sure, but tinged with a new tone. A different accent, a far call from the Scottish he’d been all those years ago.

Edward couldn’t place it. He’d bet it was from Massachusetts.

Ah, how he did not miss that state.

“It’s no trouble.” He muttered instead, giving a blushing twitch of a grin before retreating.

Drawing himself back up and sauntering towards his horse, taking his bundled clothes with him. He pulled his arms through his waistcoat sleeves beside the beast and placed his hat back over his damp curls. He shoved his necktie into his pack, thrilled to have it off. His fingers searched for something of better use; his canteen full of whisky, for example.

It wasn’t wise to gaze at his newly found love too long. He’d give himself away or, more likely, scare the man off with his adoring stare. No honest individual pulled a drowning man out the water to then watch him like that. Ulterior motives weren’t to Edward’s taste.

He found the canteen, pulling it free. His horse brayed anxiously, hooves shifting in the dirt. It tugged against its tether and had him frowning, blinking before he slowly turned around.

He came face to face with the muzzle of his own rifle.

Behind it, stock pressed to his shoulder, Andrew fixed him with a hardened expression. One betrayed by his shivers from the cold and the slightest apprehension in his brow. Whatever this charade was, it wasn’t one he was enthused by.

Edward took a moment to chew over his words. They tasted like tobacco.

Without a uniform – he was only in his shirt and trousers, plus a borrowed coat, and no shoes – the blond didn’t hold the appearance of someone who should be wielding such a weapon. His grip was tighter than needed and the barrel wasn’t steady. There was a chance he didn’t even know how to fire it.

Always one to bet his life on things these days, Edward raised an eyebrow as he spoke. “Y’ really-?”

He was stopped by the heavy click of the hammer being pulled back. He received a raised eyebrow in return.

“Mnn.” Edward conceded with a nod, his hands raised upright. One an empty palm, the other his whisky-full canteen.

He’d pretend, for a moment, that he was threatened. It might do him good.

They’d done this before.

“I am thankful.” Andrew said, his explanation stiff with discomfort, “I truly am. Please, don’t think you haven’t earned my gratitude.”

It was a laughable experience, to hear the genuine honesty Edward recognised whilst he was held at gunpoint. It brought an unsuppressible smirk to the taller’s lips, his hands already bored of being upheld in surrender. He casually pulled the cork free from his canteen and took a sip.

The blond watched in bemusement at the complete lack of fear.

“Yes,” Edward said with a mocking nod, “I sure feel that gratitude right now.”

He saw the twitch of the other man’s eye, the way his fingers flexed beside the trigger. Andrew’s mouth was pressed into a grim line, taking steadying breaths as he mulled over his demands. His uncertainty was obvious. Whatever spurred him to this hadn’t given him a detailed plan to adhere to.

“I won’t ask you to forgive me.” He said, “Just that you allow me to be on my way without bloodshed.”

Edward licked his lips, savouring the drink he found there. “And y’ want t’ be _‘on your way’_ with m’ horse, I take it?”

After an uncomfortable second, Andrew nodded once. His hostage laughed.

“Y’ want m’ coat too?” He asked.

“I-” The rifle shifted as the blond spoke, his shivers threatening to get the better of him. He overcame them, as always. “No, sir. Just the horse. And this rifle here.”

With the muzzle still trained on him and no sign of this letting up, Edward had to sigh. His gaze softened where it dragged over the other man, soaked to the bone and without shoes. Pitiful was not a word he would ever use on Andrew and it shattered his heart to hear it creeping over his thoughts.

Without a word, Edward turned to his horse. His back was to the rifle, hands returning to his pack. He replaced his canteen and started rooting around for other items.

“I’m not givin’ you m’ horse.” He stated, not even glancing over his shoulder.

From the fumbling sounds, it clearly shocked his company.

“I’m not asking.” Andrew said.

To any other man, it was a sure command. Strong and cold and without remorse.

Edward knew better. He knew himself and he knew his love and whatever this was, it wasn’t a threat to him.

“Then shoot me.” He replied, shrugging his shoulders.

He continued searching through his belongings, occasionally reaching out to pet his horse’s nose and calm her nervous shuffling. The silence behind him was deafening and lasted longer than it should. Enough time for Edward to pull out what he wanted and tuck them under his arm.

Finally, he turned and began his walk towards his company. The distance was nothing, ten strides or less, made into miles and miles by the rifle held between them.

After a century of torment, this would be a fittingly ironic way to die. Shot by the very person he’d given everything to be with.

Andrew failed to waver at first, raising the weapon higher in a silent ‘stay away’. When it failed and his saviour continued his paces, the blond was forced to take a shaky step back. A single movement of his leg, wet stockings squelching in the mud of the shoreline. Though he held fast after, the step betrayed him.

There was a soft _clink_ where the rifle’s muzzle met a button of Edward’s waistcoat, his chest pressing against the gun. A flick of Andrew’s finger and he’d be ripped from this life into the next. (Or so Andrew should believe.)

In the quiet, still no shot rang out. The barrel shook slightly.

Over a hundred years and here they were. Strangers again, enemies perhaps, and Edward still knew the man he loved. Knew every angle of his face and the smallest tells of his expressions and the beautiful ringing of his voice no matter what.

And he knew that Andrew Haldane would never kill a stranger for his possessions.

Justice ran in his bloodline.

With the utmost care, Edward brought his hand up to the barrel. His fingers wrapped around the metal, pulling it slowly from his company’s hold. The weapon came willingly, its previous keeper slackened in his grip. The taller of the two set its butt down in the dirt, held at his side as they stood together in silence.

Andrew’s arms wrapped around his sides instead, free to fight off the cold. He didn’t dare touch the coat around his shoulders or draw it closer. He was always the type to punish himself in the smallest ways.

He looked deeply ashamed.

“Forgive me.” He muttered.

His eyes were cast downwards, unable to meet his company’s. Nothing else fell from his lips. No excuses, no pleas for mercy, and no tears. He bravely waited for the consequences of his actions to hit him.

Edward adjusted the rifle in his grip and pulled the trigger.

The shot was released up into the air with a loud, echoing bang. Birds erupted from the branches above, accompanied by a horse’s despaired whinny. Only one of the men present flinched, and not by much.

From the stranger whose coat he wore, the would-be thief received only a pair of leather boots. Edward pulled them from under his arm, offered without a word. It left a stricken, crumpled expression across Andrew’s features. Confusion mixed with horror and embarrassment.

The trapper couldn’t stand it.

“Take ‘em.” He ordered. The sergeant he once was leapt forth, jostling the boots aggressively.

Had he possessed less restraint, he would have taken off his new pair and handed them over, putting these old things back on his own feet. That could be done later, he supposed, when their relationship wasn’t hanging by an uncomfortably thin noose.

Out of pure sorrow for his actions, the blond took the boots in his hands. He held them mournfully, refusing to put them on and simply boring a hole in them with his eyes.

“Thank you.” He whispered, every syllable aching.

There were questions eating his insides, about the boots and the kind, fearless man who owned them. Andrew remained quiet instead. An interrogation was the last thing he would be attempting.

He looked defeated. Except this was nothing like the skirmish in New Jersey or retreat at Monongahela. There had been honour there.

“What’re you runnin’ from?” Edward asked.

He hoped he hid the ache in his voice and how desperately he needed an answer. What could drive his love to this was beyond him. Times had changed and he hadn’t changed with them, imagining all the old demons that were long gone.

None of them could have pushed Andrew to this.

Softly, the blond breathed out a huff. It might have been a laugh once. Then, slowly, he shook his head.

Like the stones he skipped across the water, Edward’s heart sank. He was reminded that he was a stranger again.

He didn’t want to be a stranger. He didn’t want to be a saviour, either, but it was better than the former. So, he’d play the saviour for the time being, and hope he could reconcile it later.

“How far away-” He asked carefully, swallowing to force away his doubts, “Do y’ need to run?”

After all this time, Andrew met his eyes. A light returned to them, flickering behind the shame. A hopeful confusion, alighted by the stranger who’d pulled him from the river.

“As far from the coast as possible.” Andrew admitted.

Convenient. Edward couldn’t hold in his chuckle. He nodded and turned away as casually as he dared, trying to play the unphased wanderer with great dedication. He only had himself to blame if he drove his love away.

“I’m headin’ back west.” He said, louder than necessary and certain every word was caught, “Up into the backcountry.”

His pack was removed from his horse’s back, reattached to the saddle side. Her reigns were freed from where he’d secured them to a branch. With no ceremony, Edward led her back towards his company; shivering and silent, clutching his boots and draped in his new coat.

“That sound far enough?” The taller man asked.

He caught Andrew’s gaze and held it. Intensely and passionately and desperately, praying that his proposal came across as genuine. He meant every damn word.

“I-” The blond didn’t flinch, merely closed his eyes in a single, slow blink. Like his counterparts before him, he lifted his chin and rose to the occasion. “I couldn’t, sir, after what I did to you.”

Exactly as expected.

One boot already in the stirrup, Edward pulled himself up into the saddle. He sat astride his horse, holding her steady before his company. Looking down on his love, his captain, his superior, and he could only grunt at the irony. Irony Andrew couldn’t understand, looking up with undeserved gratitude and honest confusion.

Edward wasn’t giving in that easily. He extended his hand down.

“Y’ can make it up t’ me.” He said.

God, it felt good to have Andrew Haldane pressed up against him.

In full view of the world, a passenger on his ride back to western Virginia. Bobbing along with the casual trot they enjoyed, trees and roads and towns and the rolling, rolling hills of their beautiful country passing by. The country one of them had decided he was going to let loose on the world, a pursuit in which the other had followed him to the very end.

The arms that wrapped around Edward’s waist didn’t go unappreciated, either. They needed to share their warmth until they reached a fire, less they catch something deadlier than a cold.

It’d be a lie to say it was pleasant from the start. The first few hours were tense, silent as the graves one of them was buried in. Their wet clothes took time to dry as their shivers did to fade.

Edward let himself be consumed by content thoughts, whilst the man behind him stewed in his shame over their earlier affair.

Andrew’s hair was shorter. He no longer wore that ponytail he’d previously had, braided so intricately when he could be bothered. (He knew all the French names for the different styles. Not so impressive, considering he knew French in general. He’d been kind enough not to use it on his lover.)

He currently wasn’t wearing breeches either, which was strange. He usually came from enough money to wear nice clothes. Trousers weren’t popular around well-to-do patrons.

Whatever sodden pants he was wearing, they were flared. And white, or had been before Virginia’s waters did their work.

If Edward was a smart man, he’d say they were part of a sailor’s uniform. He wouldn’t run his mouth out loud, however.

“You’re not taking me to the nearest sheriff’s office, are you?” He heard from behind him.

Andrew’s tone contained a mixture of humour and exhaustion, dragging his words tiredly through his smile. It made the taller of the two laugh regardless, shaking his head in fond appreciation.

“If I was, would y’ come quietly?” He replied.

He made sure to turn his head, enough that his passenger could see his grin.

He didn’t take his attempted robber to any sheriff’s office.

Instead, he took him to an inn. Edward would’ve been happy to pitch a tent when it got dark and sleep in the dirt, but new developments made that unacceptable.

His horse, for starters, who was carrying two men instead of one. She deserved a stable and proper care.

And then there was Andrew, who needed a warm and dry resting place tonight.

They enjoyed the hearth of the downstairs fire for a long while, before retiring to the room Edward purchased. With him, he brought bread from his pack and that helpful canteen of whisky to heat their insides. There were two beds, which was good. Or a great shame, the taller man couldn’t decide. He covered the blush bubbling under his cheeks at the thought, occupying himself with pulling off his damp clothes. It had been while.

Andrew watched him from one of the beds. His expression was forcibly cold, presenting only blank observation.

He was welcome to watch. It wouldn’t stop Edward stripping down to his shirt alone and falling on his mattress. He was tired.

“What’s your name, sir?” The blond asked eventually.

His company hummed, distracted by the cord holding his hair back. He pulled it free after some wrestling and combing of curls with his fingers.

“Edward Jones.” The trapper replied, for the fourth time.

In his exhausted and elated state, he forgot to ask that same question. Andrew didn’t prompt him.

Edward awoke to an empty room the next morning.

His back cracked as he sat up, a hiss escaping his lips. The heroic saviour role was a physically taxing one and he had overdone his performance. Which reminded him of yesterday’s events, curls whipping his forehead as he turned towards the bed beside his.

It was empty, the sheets pulled back to reveal not a soul beneath.

In those precious, sleepy seconds, Edward was able to rub his eyes and wonder if he’d dreamt it all.

The river and the threat and the terrible, terrible shame that had dragged over Andrew’s features. Scratching beneath his shirt, the trapper found the fabric cold and crumpled against his skin. He sniffed, revealing a snotty nose brought on by chilly waters.

His sigh rattled him painfully. Quietly, he sniffed again, this time holding back more than a little cold.

My, how he’d ruined this lifetime.

What other options he’d had, he couldn’t fathom. Was that the cruel trick; he had to choose between letting the man drown or having him disappear. It would fit the bill and leave him dejected in equal measure, no matter which he chose.

Edward wiped his eyes. Pressing his hands harder than necessary, determined not to cry. He’d just have to wait another thirty or so years, was all. Then he could try again, that was what he needed to cling to.

The wooden door squeaked, the metal handle clunking uncomfortably as it opened. Through the slim gap, Andrew slid back into the room. He leant against the wood to shut it behind him, freezing when he noticed two wide blue eyes.

“Good morning.” He said awkwardly. In one hand, he held a cloth wrapped parcel. “I brought breakfast.”

There was still shame grasping his voice. He hadn’t forgiven himself, it seemed.

If that was what had brought him back to the room, Edward could allow it. He hoped his smile wasn’t too watery.

They carried on towards Greenbrier.

Andrew was more talkative, almost as much as one of them knew him to be. His confidence was returning, overriding the humiliation of throwing out his morals a day prior.

“You’re travelling a long way west, Mr. Jones.” He said, “What brought you to the James River?”

Not usually one to indulge conversation about himself, Edward made an exception for this man. The only person who ever brought out exceptions in him.

“Went t’ collect m’ pension.” He admitted.

It was far from a glamorous or admirable explanation and he felt a little embarrassed by it.

“You were in the army?” Andrew asked.

“Mnn.” Edward replied, “Durin’ the war.”

“In Ohio?” Came the follow up.

Time was a concept the trapper needed to take better care of. Sitting so close, under an intelligent man’s scrutiny, he’d barely pass for old enough to have fought in the revolution. A change of topic would provide a better answer than the truth, since he hated lying to the blond.

“Five dollars I can guess y’ name.” Edward said suddenly.

Whatever answer Andrew had been patiently waiting for, this wasn’t it. He snorted, a hand coming to his mouth briefly to stifle the sound. Shuffling against their shared seat - and bringing an unnoticed blush to his company in the process - he settled down with a sigh and eyes turned skywards.

“I’d feel terrible taking your money-” He said, “Considering your kindness towards me, despite my behaviour towards you.”

The smirk on the taller man’s face was mischievous and directed only at the road ahead.

“You seem mighty confident I can’t guess it.” He chuckled.

Deviousness never felt so sublime. He enjoyed another sigh from behind him.

“I won’t take your money.” Andrew replied, patting him once against the shoulder, “But you’re welcome to guess, sir.”

“Mnn.” Edward grunted, forcing his excitement back down his rotten throat, “Isaac?”

The blond shook his head. “No.” He answered.

One down. The difficultly was coming up with false options and pretending to think about each one. A quiet pause would do, a moment taken by the man driving their ride.

“Abraham?” He tried, eyes drifting upwards.

Endless blue and crawling clouds returned his gaze. It was beautiful and bright.

“No.” Andrew replied. “One more guess, Mr. Jones.”

Edward’s eyes followed those clouds, barely catching the expected response. They swayed together as their horse moved steadily down the track, shifting in soft unison as they drew closer to their destination.

This was what it felt like to be content again, even with his thighs rubbed sore from riding and his arms chilly without a coat. (He’d told his passenger he didn’t need it. White lies didn’t colour a man’s character.)

Gazing upwards at those beautiful Heavens above, Edward finally spoke. “ _Andrew_.” He said.

There was no uncertainty in his voice. It might as well have been his first attempt. No name he loved like that one.

The prophetic guess was met with quiet. A silence not quite tense, floating on the surface of suspect waters.

“Yes.” Andrew replied. His voice had retreated to a whisper. “Andrew Haldane.”

Edward closed his eyes when he heard it. Briefly, before he nodded, satisfied. He looked back at the road ahead and smiled.

“That’ll be five dollars, please.” He chuckled, “Mr. Haldane.”

They dismounted at the door of that cabin Edward built for himself.

A wood and brick building, kept in excellent shape by someone who had never forgotten his father’s trade, even if he’d have liked to.

Andrew slid off the horse after him. He watched his kindly stranger take the reigns in hand and tie them securely to a porch post. Those calloused, rough fingers were terribly gentle against the animal’s nose, petting her tenderly along with several soft gratitude’s.

The blond shuffled his feet as his company began unloading his possessions. He looked back out at the cold track that extended onwards into mountain terrain, the corn crop it passed, the unfamiliar hills.

An intimidating sight. Andrew stared it down as he would any other hardship; with ease and not a hint of fear.

“I suppose this is farewell, Mr. Jones.” He said.

He carefully removed the borrowed coat from his shoulders, folding it neatly in his arms. It was held patiently as he turned back to his stranger, already stepping up onto the porch. Paying him little mind, it appeared, and focused more on kicking the door open.

“I can’t thank you enough.” Andrew continued, “I’m sorry I have nothing to give you in return.”

Edward stopped in the doorway, his pack hauled onto his shoulder and an impatient expression furrowing his brow. He looked at his love, with his borrowed coat and borrowed boots, and grunted. His breath created a gust of steam.

“Then stick around.” He proposed.

Andrew opened his mouth, thought better of it, and closed it again. His bewilderment cut through his attempts to appear unphased, jaw clenching and unclenching as he wrestled with how to respond.

Edward responded for him.

“Y’ demons can’t reach you here.” He stated, eyes cast down as he secured the door in an open position.

Unaware of who or what said demons were didn’t matter; they would have to tear through an immortal, rabid guard dog to reach their target. There was no sin he was unwilling to commit for this man.

He fixed Andrew with his piercing stare, already halfway over the threshold.

“An’ I got a stable that needs buildin’.” Edward said.

Whatever internal battlefield he had to navigate in order to stay, Andrew did so silently.

He never complained about anything.

There must have been guilt motivating some of it, initially at the very least. A deep-seated desire to mend the wounds he’d inflicted, upon himself rather than Edward. He worked hard to fix his mistake.

Firstly, by swallowing a little more of his pride – he was handed a stranger’s spare clothes once he was bold enough to step inside. He was provided a bed, made of a generous pile of furs, and shown everything he needed around the house. Then, outside and around back, the drying shed was opened up for him.

Old but functional tools lined many a hook on the wall. Edward gestured vaguely to them.

“It’ll take some time,” He admitted, “To gather the timber, but you can be on y’ way within a week or so.”

How he very much hoped he was wrong about that. Hands on his hips, Andrew sent him an apologetic glance.

“I’m afraid I don’t have any skills in construction.” He said honestly.

Edward merely shrugged. “I’ll teach you.” He said casually.

Whatever internal battlefield Andrew was navigating, Edward didn’t acknowledge it. As far as he was concerned, there was no issue.

Water under the bridge, a current that had floated him along over a hundred years. There was no wrong this man could do to him that he wouldn’t forgive. Which was definitely unhealthy, if he cared enough to consider it.

Immortality, a trait he’d officially started applying to himself, could be blamed for everything. Including blind dedication to a lover who reappeared enough to remind him how important he was.

“It’s not a fair deal,” Andrew was explaining, ever the philosopher, “That you’re providing me with lodging and food, whilst also teaching me building work.”

His fingers were expertly picking at his grouse, making a convincing display of decorum and patience. Behind his cup, however, Edward could watch the flicker in those blue eyes. One of hunger and restraint, holding the blond from grabbing the meat in a handful and tearing ferally into it.

“I get an extra pair a’ hands outta it.” The taller stated, placing his whisky back against the table. When he’d switched from rum, he couldn’t recall.

“That’s not enough.” Andrew replied, accepting no excuses.

Meeting each other’s eyes across the table, sat at either end, they might have been back in 1750. One of them looked a fraction younger than the last time they’d eaten here, but not by much. And he wasn’t in that splendid frock coat anymore, only a faded shirt tucked into dark breeches.

Edward felt he’d have to buy some more clothes soon.

“Well,” He tried, swallowing down an invisible mouthful, “We’ll make a trade of it.”

Even when Andrew had nothing to his name, the trapper had little of value to offer. He desperately wanted to provide incentive to stay here but there wasn’t much to advertise. Shelter, food, and lacklustre company weren’t godsends.

“There must be many things you can teach me.” Edward said. He meant it.

Pausing to consider, Andrew lifted his cup to his lips. He didn’t take a swig, choosing to speak instead.

“I can sail a ship.” He said, “And I can speak French. And play piano.”

Around his heavy gulp of whisky, he hummed out a laugh. At his own expense, uninspired by his list, which had his company scowling.

“Nothing of use here, I’m afraid, sir.” The blond muttered.

Any argument to the contrary would sound disingenuous, regardless of whether Edward meant it. He’d love to learn any of those things – even that bastard language – from this particular teacher. His gaze wondered the cabin walls in search of a response, a rebuttal that was convincing yet restrained.

He found his answer in the bible, lying dustily on one of his few shelves. The Lord provided and Edward smiled.

Turning back to an expectant Andrew, he asked; “Can you read?”

By day, they headed into the woods that surrounded the cabin.

Through the corn crop slowly fading to the cold, they felled the trees needed to build shelter for his unexpectedly bought horse. It wasn’t a fancy construction nor a complicated job.

Edward ran his hand over the trunks to choose, knocking his knuckles there in triumph. He’d hold out his hand for his axe but found it withheld. Andrew would insist on being the one to do the hard work, as the man on the ‘better side of the bargain’.

Irritating as that was, it was probably for the best. And the taller of the two enjoyed tying knots in his length of rope, ready to drag their haul home. It was therapeutic and repetitive and gave him a great position to admire his company’s strong movements.

It left sweat on Andrew’s brow and a heaving in his broad chest and a boyish grin on Edward’s lips.

“The peg fixes here.” Edward explained.

His hands were laid over another pair, guiding them in their woodwork. Both men had their arms raised overhead, shirt sleeves at their elbows. Reaching up to the low hanging edge of their would-be stable roof. It was coming along well.

Well enough for the taller to notice the roughness of the skin beneath his palms, the bumps of fading scars. He gripped those hands lovingly and tighter than he should, never wanting to release their warmth. All in the name of teaching, nothing more.

“Like that?” Andrew asked.

His back brushed his company’s chest as he moved his fingers, positioning the wooden peg where it was needed. It held fast, secured roughly in the hole they’d carved out.

“Jus’ like that.” Edward agreed, “Good.”

His smile briefly brushed the other man’s blond hair as he was forced to glance away.

They’d built a roof together before.

By night, they sat on the porch and chewed tobacco.

The cold was kept out by blankets and furs wrapped around their shoulders; the same ones used to create a comfortable makeshift bed against the floor. (Edward hadn’t offered his up this time for fear it might come across strange.)

“ _Ish-_ ” The trapper was currently struggling with his greatest battle yet, finger pressed hard against the crumpled page. “ _Ish-rah-ale_.”

“ _Is_.” Andrew corrected softly, his thumb brushing over of the word. “ _Israel_.”

Edward’s frown was comically disgusted.

“But there’s no _‘y’_.” He turned to his tutor with a look of betrayal. “You said the _‘ay’_ is made by a _‘y’_.”

In the fading evening sun, the blond beamed at him. His chuckle was restrained, though it needn’t have been. The warmth and fondness was loud enough.

“There’s a lot of words like that.” He said. “They look peculiar and not how they sound.”

His student’s eyes rolled and his low, guttural growl released a torrent of steam. There was no harder news to hear. The curly haired man bore it with open contempt.

“Perfect.” He mused. “Maybe in fifty years, I’ll be able t’ remember half of ‘em.”

That made Andrew laugh.

They finished the stable.

It was a neat wooden structure, simple but solidly built. Some skills never left you.

Edward’s horse was thrilled. Or as thrilled as he believed a horse could look, blinking slowly at him through the open doorway. She laid down inside quickly after inspecting it so it must have been up to standard.

He decided this called for a celebration. Andrew followed him behind the outhouse, no longer needing an explicit invitation. He’d gotten over his embarrassment regarding their meeting.

He found his saviour squatted beside a smaller, shabbier wooden structure, just big enough to house and obscure the whisky still inside. The tap squeaked as Edward generously filled the jug they’d been running dry over the week.

“You gon’ tell on me?” He laughed, noticing the watchful silence of his company.

If dodging taxes was a sin, he’d gladly add it to his robust list. Considering the most recent war he’d been involved in, he certainly didn’t consider it one.

Andrew smiled and fondly shook his head. He didn’t think so either.

In return, Edward offered him the jug.

“I suppose you’ll be leavin’ come dawn.” Edward murmured. He spoke casually, wistfully almost.

They’d had their dinner, a plentiful meal of squirrel, potatoes, and corn. With warm whisky to finish, the entire jug heated on the hearth. He was sipping from a cupful by the window, perched on the sill.

Andrew was already in bed. His borrowed nightshirt drowned his form, breeches held up in his hands as he folded them neatly. Why he was so courteous to worn, ratty clothes, his company would never understand.

“I suppose.” He said. “Though I wouldn’t have upheld my end of our bargain entirely.”

True, his company was far from literate yet.

The words were neither an agreement nor denial. Perhaps he thought Edward wanted him out. A blisteringly incorrect idea that would need putting down.

“Thought y’ wanted to head west.” He said, watching nothing but the windowpane. “Somewhere-” He gestured vaguely with his cup, “- ‘ _far away_ ’.”

“I wanted to move away from the coast.” The blond corrected.

His pause was heavy. He was doing that dangerous thinking again, considering and reconsidering and considering again. All while a tall man leant patiently against the window, illuminated by the moonlight and the hearth beyond the kitchen doorway.

“I’d say here is far enough from that.” Andrew said.

He spoke as if the pause had never existed, as if the fact were obvious. His confidence was radiant. It was one of many a feature worth adoring.

“Well,” Edward laughed, “If m’ lodgings haven’t been too much t’ bear, I’d appreciate company.”

His head turned to one side, not quite enough to look over his shoulder. The outline of his face – heavy curls, strong nose, and slight stubble – could be seen from the floor behind. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the blond sat there. Atop a pile of furs, under a warm blanket, and with borrowed breeches across his lap.

“If you wanna stay…” Edward murmured.

He never had Andrew’s confidence. If he said the words too loud, confessed too easily, this whole cabin might fall apart around him.

His love smiled.

“I think I’d be-” Andrew licked his lips, considering, “ _Amendable_ to that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- _"Enlisted men who continued to serve for the duration of the conflict were each to receive a gratuity of $80 after the war under the terms of the same enactment."_ (1778) Officers got half-pay for seven years, which flip-flopped from full-pay and back again, as did widow's pensions. As a Captain, Andrew would've made $20 a month in the war; Eddie would've made less than $10.  
> \- U.S whisky replaced rum from the Caribbean around this time as American alcohol production at home increased.  
> \- Eddie's rifle is still muzzle-loading but the barrel is rifled (grooved inside). It's slower to reload but the accuracy/fire distance is far greater than a smooth-bore musket. (Though, unlike the latter, you can't just shove whatever you want down the muzzle for a shotgun effect.)


	5. Chapter 5

The winter of 1807 was a cold one.

Snow fell across the hill peaks, frost fogged over the windows. The whisky still burned the hand when touched, metal turned hot in the icy chill. The hearth remained well-stoked, flames constantly alight. A stable door had to be erected for Edward’s horse. ( _Their_ horse, he’d silently been calling her.)

It didn’t stop the pair’s progress. They were men of their word and a bargain had been struck.

Andrew continued to guide his company’s fingers across the pages of the bible, repeating the phrases until the letters could be recognised. His patience was endless, his support caring and never once expressing disappointment.

In return, Edward built him a bed. He pushed it up against the wall opposite his own, with a mattress he’d made and piles of blankets.

Andrew would spin him poetry in French, a follow up to each session with the bible. The stories he’d craft were much more exciting, translated slowly and expertly so his company could mouth selected words in his stead. His voice was beautiful even as he recited the numbers from one to ten, the song on his lips the only hymn his host would ever kneel before.

In return, Edward rode into town, before the other man was awake. He returned with two shirts and some breeches that would properly fit his company, along with a fresh pair of boots.

Andrew would tap his fingers on the table in the evenings, moving his hands as if he were imagining a piano’s keys. To make up for the loss of sound, he’d sing. He had many a tune to his name, never being so heinous as to repeat one. After a week of classics and carols, they turned noticeably to sea shanties. The change was noted but unmentioned, the upbeat melodies of the ocean preferred to the Lord’s praises. It was worth hearing him sing.

In return, Edward showed his company how to shoot. Where to aim, how to reload efficiently, the knowledge of a rifle’s weight. They blew many a rotted apple off a pike together, after several days of misses.

After all that, the trapper worked diligently beyond the call of duty.

He explained his hunting techniques and he demonstrated how to skin a catch and he presented the other man with his best furs to wear in the cold. He cooked their meals and salted his extra crops for storing and constantly topped up the whisky jug. He fixed their clothes when they tore and patched up creaks in the cabin and chopped as much wood as they could ever stack, until the pile was metres high. He made all the trips to buy supplies, to sell his furs, to draw water from the creek.

He asked for nothing in return. Once upon a time, a young man had done the same for him, in a little place called Andover.

Andrew never complained (about anything) but his longing was evident. He was desperate to help.

“It’s not a fair deal.” He reminded the tall, curly haired man currently chopping potatoes for their evening meal. “But I’ve run out of knowledge to trade for rent, I’m afraid.”

He was only half joking. The humour hid a dark admission, a potential threat of banishment from the warmth of their home. Sent out to find his own way in this cold, the blond would surely perish.

Edward remembered the expression his second captain had worn, watching a stranger be sent to die in a similar scenario. It haunted him.

“I don’t take rent from guests.” He explained, wanting to kill that idea before it festered. He had no intention of exploiting anybody for profit, whatever that profit might be. “But y’ wrong.”

From where he sat, arms folded against his chest, Andrew sent his company a dangerous glance. One of affronted pride, a look of arrogance on any other man.

“Wrong?” He asked, smile twitching at the insinuation.

What he could possibly be incorrect about escaped him. Finished with the vegetables, Edward slid them from the table into a pot of water. He hummed his response, busy setting the pot against the fire to boil.

“Mnn.” He nodded, agreeing with himself. “You haven’t taught me how t’ sail a ship yet.”

“ _Oh_.” Andrew breathed. “You remembered that.”

It wasn’t disparaging, merely mournful. He clearly regretted mentioning it. It’d seemed calculated at the time, the perfect example of a useless skill, to illustrate how he couldn’t pay his debts. How wrong he’d been, unaware that the stranger who’d rescued him was determined to remain at his side.

Edward sat at the table to his right, no longer placed distantly at the opposite end. He lent his elbows on the surface and watched the other man intently. He had so many questions, placed at the back of his mind during their introductory time together. Ignored and silent, until now.

It had been several months. The new year was fast approaching, and the days were only getting colder. They were snowed in together, in a sense.

He had to know.

“Were you a sailor?” He asked first.

“Yes.” Came the reply. “I was.”

Hoping to keep his interrogation casual, the trapper reached for the whisky jug. He took the handle in one hand and two carved cups in the other, pouring out a generous helping for him and his company. The gesture was greatly appreciated, a heavy gulp disappearing down the blond’s throat.

“In the navy?” Edward continued, taking a sip of his own drink.

He watched Andrew’s eyes. Behind the blue, an angry spark flickered and died, burning for a moment. The man collected himself, blinking away the emotion behind a second, dignified sip.

“ _No_.” He stated. His teeth caught on the word. “A merchant sailor.”

A pause followed, silent besides the lowering of Edward’s cup to the table. The soft clunk punctuated the difficult discussion. Atop the fire, the potatoes bubbled merrily away. The wind outside was kept quiet by the thick wooden walls.

While he didn’t appreciate the silence, Edward used the time to formulate his next question. There were quite a few, jumbled together in a mass of desperate curiosity he had to quench. Every detail was needed in order to soothe whatever had driven his love out to this freezing hillside.

Eyes unfocused and lost to his thoughts, the trapper carefully brought the whisky to his lips again. He took another sip. The cup was returned to the table.

“Why do you drink like that?” Andrew asked.

Blinking back to reality, Edward replied; “What?”

“Sipping.” The blond said.

His eyes were narrowed in interest. He’d been watching too, it seemed, smart and observant as ever. The machinations of his host had also been occupying his thoughts, mirrored questions kept at bay by the same politeness.

After a steady rolling of one week into the next, nestled closely in each other’s company, it was time to extract some answers.

Taking a deep inhale to settle his stomach, Edward tipped back a heavy gulp of his whisky. He knew it wouldn’t satisfy nor dismiss the question, but it felt good regardless. Breaking that insufferable pattern he hadn’t realised he’d clung to.

“Old habit, I s’pose.” He admitted.

He chewed over an explanation. Literally, biting his lip and moving his tongue uncomfortably about his mouth. He was patiently indulged, his company waiting in silence.

“Picked it up while in prison.” Edward muttered.

He looked down into his cup, the warm coloured liquid settling halfway down. Its surface tilted where he swirled it carefully. The bottom wasn’t dry and the contents wasn’t water. He was warmed by a comfortable hearth, not the oppressive heat of the sun. He smelt whisky and steadily cooking potatoes rather than sweat and rotting flesh.

And the man beside him had full cheeks, a strong chest, clean clothes. The fact that he looked solemn was nothing compared to the ghost that haunted the trapper’s thoughts.

“You would-” He had to stop and rearrange the story. Luckily, the slip went undeciphered. “We’d have a cup a’ water each, when we was locked down in the hold. It’d get so hot y’ could barely breathe.”

The whisky was raised to his lips as he spoke.

“An old friend taught me how t’ make the water last.” He explained. He took a swig to douse the tension in his throat and waited for a verdict.

Andrew was fiddling with his own cup, much as he had at Valley Forge. He swirled the alcohol similarly, before taking a careful sip himself. Mimicking the story as he mulled it over.

Joke was on him; he could never replicate how he’d looked in the depths of that hold.

“That explains your wrists.” He muttered.

His tone was sympathetic, the same as his eyes where they flickered over Edward’s shirt cuffs. Covering the discoloured skin where the rubbing of metal had created scarring around the wrist. It wasn’t noticeable unless you looked. (Andrew had looked.)

Edward grunted. He finished his drink.

“It’s not the worst scar I got.” He said.

The neck of the jug glugged generously. His cup was refilled before he slid his chair backwards and rose to his feet. He felt eyes follow him where he took the pot off the stove, unloaded its contents onto two plates. He’d had drippings left from yesterday’s meat and it made as good a gravy equivalent as anything else could.

“Is that why you wear your nightshirt to bed so religiously?” Andrew asked teasingly. His smile had returned.

A plate was placed before him, along with a chair scraping closer. They both sat and ate in a silent truce, their important conversation losing the battle to their hunger.

“I’m preservin’ m’ modesty.” Edward replied around a finger he was sucking the gravy from.

“Men need only preserve their modesty around the fairer sex.” The blond replied.

It sounded like he was reciting from somewhere. Perhaps a parent’s wisdom or gentleman’s advice. A pointed observation nonetheless and the trapper was committed to dodging its line of fire. They were having a different, equally danger-ridden discussion.

“I believe I’m not the only one who wears a nightshirt t’ bed.” The trapper mused.

“As a guest in your home,” Andrew replied, “I thought it proper.”

“Mmn.” His company hummed around his current mouthful. “Didn’t know sailors had manners.”

The potato in Andrew’s fingers was held in too tense a grip and it slipped back down onto the plate. His lip curled in annoyance; he regained his composure quickly.

And so, the conversation rotated, clicking back into place at its beginning. The perfect gears of the music box they’d been dancing on for over a century, in some capacity. The tune had changed. The spinning motion hadn’t. One man present dreaded the day when the melody finally ceased.

The blond clearly thought he’d dodged the original line of questioning, escaped artfully into the shadows of a different topic. He hadn’t. He’d underestimated his company’s dedication.

Edward needed to know.

“I told you my story.” He said pointedly.

A rebuttal danced behind the other man’s eyes. Undoubtably some implication that, in reality, they knew little about each other, despite their close proximity. It was held back. It would be as undeserved as it was incorrect.

Andrew placed the last piece of potato in his mouth. He waited to withdraw his finger, sucking the gravy from it thoughtfully. He then reached for his whisky.

“What do you want to know?” He asked, resigning himself to his fate before he took a sip.

Edward’s eyes were aching, his brow creased in anguish for whatever his love had endured. His chest stung with a similar pain, the punishment for forcing the man into this corner.

“What’re you runnin’ from?” He asked.

A repeat from the river.

He didn’t hide the pain in his voice or how desperately he needed an answer this time. What could drive his love to this place was beyond him. Times had changed and he had not changed with them, imagining all the old demons that were long gone.

None of them could have Andrew _running_.

The man in question tipped his cup back and emptied it down his throat. It must have burned. When he returned it to the table, gently beside his plate, his eyes followed it down.

“I was born in Massachusetts.” He said.

Like before, it sounded like he was reciting something. Something far worse than old advice; a confession to a priest or under oath before a judge. Something he’d said before, over and over again, to no avail. Nobody had listened.

Edward would listen.

“My father was from the Highlands but I- _I_ am from Massachusetts.” He repeated. “That should have been enough.”

Eyes never leaving the other man, the taller of the two carefully lifted the jug and refilled his company’s cup. He received a grateful nod in return.

“Did you know the British have almost five-hundred ships at their disposal?” Andrew asked.

The rhetorical nature need go unstated, but his company shook his head regardless.

“That’s a lot of sailors needed to man those vessels.” The blond laughed bitterly into his drink as he spoke, raising his eyebrows comedically. “Especially when you’re constantly at war with the French.”

The man beside him swallowed thickly. For all his faults, he wasn’t dim-witted enough to miss where this story was headed.

“I was a merchant sailor.” Andrew repeated.

Softly, mournfully, burdened with a pride long doused. Nostalgia was a horrible feeling.

“They took that from me.” He muttered. “Along with my crewmates, my ship-” His sigh rattled his chest, almost another laugh. Fuelled by the warmth of the drink and the comedy to be found in such tragedy. “My dignity.”

Edward strongly doubted that. Not the cruelty of the British, which he knew first-hand; only that his love could ever be robbed of such a thing. He’d seen dignity retained by this man in situations unimaginably dark.

Where Andrew rested his cup back on the table, he found a hand placed over his wrist. Patting gently, comfortingly, then growing bolder. The fingers resting on his skin squeezed, thumb rubbing encouraging circles.

They could blame it on the alcohol, if desired.

“Why’d y’ become a sailor?” Edward asked quietly. “A merchant one.” He added.

He’d gotten the answers he needed; he had no desire to root around in painful memories he claimed no right to. He could piece together how impressment would lead to rowing a stolen jollyboat as far from your captors’ domain as possible.

Observing the hand over his for a moment – but not pulling away – Andrew chuckled. He gave his company a small, sly smile, his eyes narrowed. It was if they shared a secret. The taller couldn’t imagine what it might be.

“Same as any man.” The sailor said. His eyes ventured over their hands again, his own still holding his cup.

“Money?” Edward asked.

Andrew laughed at his ignorance. It was a loud and good-natured sound, echoing pleasantly off the walls.

“Certainly.” He admitted. “But I think there are better examples.”

The trapper was able to down his remaining drink with his free hand. He slid the cup away across the wood and placed a second grip on top of his company’s. He was listening intently, grinning from ear to ear. The warmth in his veins contented him.

“And what would those be?” He asked, leaning closer.

Andrew raised an eyebrow. His smirk was restrained, held back from splitting his face in half. He was doing an admirable job of it.

“Why, the three things sailors know best.” He explained, his voice clear and poised. He could have been giving a lecture to a class of gentleman in Boston. Instead, he was here. “Rum, sodomy, and the lash.”

His smile grew as he watched his company recoil an inch, the surprise clear across his features, face twisting in a mix of emotions. Excitement and disbelief and a little fear. The fingers he had around the blond’s hand clenched tightly.

Suddenly, Edward felt great sympathy for a lieutenant who’d sat in this cabin fifty-seven years ago, accosted by a similarly bold implication. The same pleasant shock had been inflicted on him then by none other than Edward himself. All men got their dues eventually, huh.

Andrew watched him with dark, whisky-soaked eyes. A final grip was placed atop their little pile, the sailor choosing to release his cup. They held hands against the table, a mess of palms and fingers.

“I became a sailor for the first two.” He said. He had to shrug before he continued. “Not so much the last.”

They’d had this conversation before, three times in fact. The smell of alcohol had returned for its signature feature, though the scent was rum no longer.

Never had it been quite as blunt a discussion as this.

Admitting to a hangable offence was one thing. Admitting to basing your career around said hangable offence, an affront to Almighty God no less, was another, stranger thing. It fit Andrew Haldane perfectly.

“That’s a bold statement t’ make,” Edward said through gritted teeth, forcing the excited tremor in his voice to steady itself, “In the company of a man you barely know.”

The look sent his way was scathing. A handsome combination of disbelief, judgement, and mocking humour. There was a grin across his love’s face like he hadn’t seen in decades, full of fondness and adoration and the playful teasing of a sincere romance.

“Oh, Mr. Jones,” Andrew teased, “You live alone in a cabin in the hills, with no wife or children, and request another man as your only company.”

Well, when he put it like that, it seemed obvious.

The trapper had spent a century imagining himself a master of disguise. Nobody had ever challenged him, only expressed their interest on occasion. (Sailors, most of them, he realised.) He assumed only men like them could spot men like them.

Apparently, times had changed. Or that assumption was as sure as it had ever been, since Andrew was, per his own admittance, the same.

He was currently laughing as his own teasing statement. Edward adored that restrained chuckle, escaping his broad chest as he tried to stifle it. Using their hands on the table, the taller levered himself upright. He stepped closer.

“Shut up.” He ordered, “An’ kiss me, Andrew.”

It had been a while.

Over twenty-seven years, another tragic period of Edward’s romantic life. _Dry_ would be a fair description and he wasn’t referring to any alcohol.

In his haste to enjoy Andrew again, the trapper forgot their previous conversation. Reason escaped him as he fell backwards against his bed, keeping himself sitting only so he could still reach Andrew’s lips. Kissing him felt electrifying after so many years.

A slim, fragile blessing in all this. Edward got the perfect joy of experiencing his first kiss with Andrew over and over again.

The trapper’s breeches had already been tugged off, along with his stockings and underwear. No shame slowed that particular action, his legs spread against the mattress, one hand gripping his partner’s nape and the other keeping him upright. If his love wanted him on his back, he’d have to push him and even then, the taller man would drag the blond down with him.

He didn’t want to spend a moment without their lips pressed together, besides those necessary to breathe.

In his haste, his excitement, the heat under his skin and the stiffness in his cock, Edward let his shirt be pulled over his head.

Warm air brushed his lips where Andrew retreated from him. A single, painful inch, those blue eyes running down over the naked body sat, legs apart, on the mattress for him.

A hefty, coiled scar bloomed from the impact mark, an ugly and hardened flower above the trapper’s hip. Standing beside the bed, the blond could glimpse the thick white lines over his company’s shoulders. Their tendrils reached desperately, trying to crawl up his back and over to his collar bone. The mark of a lashing was unmistakable.

“My God…” Andrew breathed, blasphemy riding on his exhale.

Beneath him, the trapper had recoiled in on himself. Shoulders hunched, both hands fisted in the scratchy mattress fabric. Eyes downcast to the floorboards where they belonged. His brow had creased and the warm flush of his drink had become deep embarrassment.

“Sorry, I’m-” He had to swallow thickly. “I’m not much t’ look at.”

Honestly, he never had been. The bare minimum, he would bet, that would be acceptable to men like him. Never good enough but tolerable.

He was less than that now, which situated him staunchly below acceptable to someone as handsome as Andrew Haldane.

Warm fingers brushed those embarrassed cheeks, taking Edward’s face in a firm but gentle grip. His eyes were directed at the man leaning over him, blond hair flashing silver in the cold winter moonlight. Their gazes were held together on Andrew’s silent command. His knee pressed against the bed and his weight moved their bodies against it, pushing his company onto his back.

There, the sailor hovered, knelt atop a man naked and desperately waiting for his response. Still, the blond kept those hands lovingly against his face.

“Don’t ever apologise to me.” Andrew ordered.

That ghost returned to his face, appearing and disappearing as swiftly as he spoke. A younger, angrier captain could be seen in his features, someone illuminated in the fireplaces of Valley Forge and blood stains of Bunker Hill.

Edward’s exhale was shuddering. His chest trembled and he could only nod.

He received a kiss as a reward, their lips returned to each other and their rush forgotten. Their tongues moved tentatively, eyes slipping closed to enjoy the moment. Whether it was a sigh or a growl the trapper released when his love pulled away was up for debate.

“Fuck.” He had to mutter, unable to hold the cuss in.

He felt those fingers leave his cheeks and his eyes opened to glance down. His hooded gaze followed blond hair, moving slowly down over his collar. Fleeting kisses were planted there, ones that had him swallowing to quench the dryness in his throat. Those chaste footprints marched steadily across his chest, once on his nipple, then lower to their destination.

Andrew bent down and placed his mouth over Edward’s musket wound, kissing the scar there like his predecessor never got the chance to.

The man below him, shivering in the warmth of their house, fisted a hand in blond hair. The other came to his face, fingers pressed over his eyes. His sniff failed to stifle the tremors in his shoulders.

“It’s alright.” Andrew whispered against his skin, planting another kiss to that matted flesh, “Shh, it’s alright.”

His shushing soothed the air, filling his company’s lungs as he breathed in a shaky gasp. The fingers in the sailor’s hair relaxed, comforted by the sound. The trapper stroked those locks and dared look down. He found familiar eyes and a joyful smile.

It would take getting used to again, the gentleness Andrew always held for him. Edward had never felt it as intensely as he did then.

That was alright. They had time.

Usually, Edward would be the one to lie awake.

Between the two of them, he upheld the mantle of protector. A guard dog, running fingers through short blond hair, watching the wind rattle the window. He’d stare up at the ceiling of the cabin he built, on the bed he built, body satisfied and mind racing. His lover would be asleep, eyes closed against the world, breathing contently where he laid atop his chest.

Instead, Andrew was awake. This time, he was the one playing with dark curls, blue eyes blinking slowly and a sated smile on his lips. He was thinking.

“I think I love you, Mr. Jones.” He muttered after a moment.

In all their years together, had he ever said that before?

The arms around him, nestling their naked bodies against each other, tightened their grip. Safe beneath blankets and furs, Edward pulled him closer. His face was buried in the blond’s neck, hiding even a glimpse of his reaction. Lying atop him, chest to chest, his felt the rumble of his lover’s fond sigh.

Where the trapper’s nose pressed against his throat, Andrew felt wetness on his skin. He didn’t mention it aloud, only kissed the curls he held in his hand.

“I love you, Andrew.” He heard, muttered like scripture against his neck.

It stirred something in his gut, a feeling no looming ship or beautiful sunset or hot meal could replicate. A sensation unfamiliar and overpowering, leaving him breathless. The blond swallowed down the questions taking over his tongue.

Edward spoke with such relief. He was saying something he’d been holding back for years.

They saw the winter through.

Spring bloomed on the horizon. Undisturbed by shops to mind or militias to command or wars to fight, they waited patiently for the summer. They took their time.

The crunch of the apple between his teeth echoed under the porch. The juice was sweet, fresh from the trees he’d planted long ago. They were bearing delicious treats in the summer weather.

The summer of 1809. Time certainly flew by in good company.

Hot sunlight was kept off their heads by the cabin’s overhang. Edward saw the rays flash on his boots, held between his busy hands. His brush rubbed them in rhythmic circles, buffing the leather with expert care. To the left of his bare feet, where he sat on the porch’s edge, Andrew’s shoes had already been cleaned.

“Une tresse.” A voice behind him recited.

“ _Une tresse_.” The trapper repeated diligently, tapping the bristles against his boot. “What’s that?”

“It’s what I’m currently doing to your hair.” Andrew replied with a chuckle.

He was also sat on the porch, behind his company. On his knees, comfortably cushioned by a well-placed pelt. His open thighs rested against his love’s buttocks, his hands tangled in the man’s long hair. There, a braid was intricately appearing, curls woven into submission by gentle fingers.

“A knot?” Edward asked incredulously.

He received an offended guffaw and a slap on his shoulder.

“A braid, sir.” The blond corrected. “Have a little faith!”

They laughed loudly under the summer sun, interrupted by flapping birds and distant carts rattling down the road. The track had grown busier, though never enough to disturb their sheltered cabin. Edward returned his focus to the boots that required his attention.

“My apologies.” He chuckled. He wasn’t sorry.

A warm, sticky weight knocked his shoulder blade. A small patch of heat, the resting place of Andrew’s forehead, placed there in fond contempt. How cruel he would have to be to tie a knot in already untameable hair.

“Mon amour.” He muttered against the fabric, s shirt no longer bright white and damp with sweat.

Drawing in a deep inhale, the blond enjoyed the familiar scent that permeated his every waking moment. It soothed him deeply, even outside in the daylight, away from intimate encounters.

“ _Mon amour_.” Edward repeated nonchalantly.

He recited it without care, repetition to memorise another word for his repertoire. He couldn’t fathom its weight.

“What’s that mean?” He asked, focused on the boots between his hands.

The fabric at his back shifted, revealing the tiniest movement. Andrew was smiling.

“That’s you.” He replied.

It left confusion in its wake, the brush coming to a halt and the trapper’s eyes rising to meet the distant road. He saw the corn fields to his right and the path he took towards the creek and the fence they had erected last fall. He found no answer to his anxious question.

“It-” He squinted in the sunlight. “It means ‘fur trapper’?”

With a chuckle, Andrew withdrew the weight he’d lent on the man’s back. He hooked his chin over Edward’s shoulder instead, lips brushing the sensitive skin of his ear, revealed by the tying back of his hair.

“ _Mon amour_.” The blond repeated. “ _My love_.”

A chaste kiss was left against the trapper’s neck. Andrew sat back on his knees and returned to braiding those brown curls.

It left his company with a breathless sigh on his lips.

Cleaning the cabin was a chore.

Particularly after a good haul, furs piling up before the men had a chance to ride into town for sale. Room had to be made and the clearing was an incredible bore. Edward agreed to do it himself. He was promised a fantastic cock sucking in return.

Bribery at its finest.

“An’ these?” Edward asked, emerging from the bedroom.

He held up the clothes his company had been wearing in the James River. They’d been discarded under the bed, forgotten for two years.

A dirty, crumpled pair of sailor’s trousers and matching shirt. Andrew glanced at them with distain before turning back to his writing. (He had his own writing desk, built by a loving partner as a Christmas gift. A festival that the blond scathingly tolerated, and his company rejoiced in.)

The uniform couldn’t hold his gaze.

“Burn them.” He said, as casually as he could.

Edward grunted. “And this?”

He held a battered pistol, found crumpled in the uniform. It was British made, stamped with the hallmarks of a fine London tradesmen. (The trapper could read them now.)

The blond gave a quiet snort. His grin was upturned in victory, the memory of a theft never discovered. Or rather, never punished.

“You can keep that.” He muttered. He dipped his pen in the ink and returned it to his paper.

With another nod, the clothes were tossed into the hearth. The fire poker pressed them into the flames.

The pistol was twirled in Edward’s hand. A familiar gift, though nowhere near as satisfying as the original. He missed the beautifully engraved ‘A. H.’ that had adorned the previous weapon.

“Why didn’t you shoot me with it?” He asked.

The scratching of the quill paused for but a second. The answer was considered fleetingly, before the writing started up again.

Andrew spoke plainly, unafraid of honesty in the loving warmth of their home. “Wet powder.” He said.

Burning. That was what he saw behind Andrew’s eyes.

Flames roaring into life as he stomped back towards their cabin. He’d trotted up the road, dropped off their horse, and led her quickly back to the stable. Hiding her from his fervour, no doubt. He uttered not a word. No greetings and no explanation.

Behind tightly pressed lips and a deep scowl, his eyes _burned_.

Edward watched from the porch, sat on the step. He’d been waiting for the man to come home, as he always did. He found great pleasure in it, content to his thoughts until they could be broken by his love returning. It reminded him of the mid-eighteenth century.

This time wasn’t the same. Strong arms didn’t wrap around his waist, gentle fingers didn’t run over his curls.

Andrew walked straight past him.

Left behind on the porch, the trapper folded his hands together. He wrung his fingers gently, pressing each of his worn knuckles. His teeth found his lip, his gut stirring uncomfortably. A distinct and unnatural feeling of wrongness filled his nostrils where he inhaled.

The sensation of a phantom flintlock snapping, letting loose a single spark. He felt the wind change, carrying that ignition towards him. Careful, the life he’d built was flammable. Fragile even after five healthy years together.

It was 1812.

For all Edward liked to curse God for the shortcomings of his life, this was no act of the divine.

This was men, behaving as they always had. Greedily, violently, and without thought for the consequences.

Men made war and war took its payment from Edward _personally_.

It took little prying to get Andrew to admit to where his anger came from. And anger it was not; it was passion, a furious excitement fed by vengeance.

He’d relished the opportunity to release it. To laugh breathlessly to the Heaven’s, the cabin ceiling, to Edward himself. Words bubbling and finger jabbing as he rode upon waves of righteous fury.

If it weren’t for the décor, they could have been back in Boston.

“The United States of America is at war with Britain.” He decreed, coldly and clearly, eyes flashing in the autumn light, “And it’s about damn time.”

It sure sounded a lot like Boston. Only Edward’s heart sank instead of soared, knowing better this time. Idealistic patriots had turned to boys choking out their last, he’d seen it. He’d caused it.

So, he said nothing. Grunted and hid his growing contempt behind the motions of preparing their dinner. The only indication came in the steady chop, chop, chop of his knife, slamming harder than necessary against the table.

Andrew didn’t notice. He was consumed by his thoughts and the words that came from them. He drummed his fingers where he sat at their dining table. He wasn’t mimicking any piano.

Dinner was a quiet affair.

Andrew gave his explanation of the war, it’s reasons, and his firm belief in its righteousness. A neat collection, uttered in soft observations between pauses to sip his whisky. He hid his passion well and returned to the patient teacher, the same one who had run their fingers over those bible pages.

Edward gave no more than grunts to any of it. He focused on cleaning his plate. The distraction didn’t last.

It left him sat at the table he’d built, in the cabin he’d built, watching the peaceful life he’d built crumble with every righteous word. Dejectedly, slumped against his wooden seat with an untouched cup of whisky in his hands.

He’d never had the grip on his destiny Andrew had; he suspected he never had a grip at all.

There was another war on. One that, like the last, spurred the blond to action by enticing his exact grievances with the world.

“Finally, all these years of impressment can end.” He whispered. “We can seek to avenge the insults we’ve endured.”

He was looking into his whisky. Fall was rolling into winter, the warm liquid staving off the chill. He was smiling a little and appeared incredibly pleased. And beside him, scrubbing his forehead irritably, sat the only man there who knew what war smelled like.

“Who’s _‘we’_?” Edward asked. The words were spat from his mouth and the aggression caught his company’s attention.

Fading sunlight highlighting his features, Andrew turned his head. There was surprise written across his eyes and disappointment beginning to bloom in his brow.

“We all have to work to ensure our liberty’s preserved.” He explained. His voice lacked the fervour and volume of before. He had retreated, unprepared for the debate. “We can do our part.”

Steady eyes stared back at him, dark and narrowed against the dying daylight.

“What ‘part’?” The trapper replied. Mockery bit nastily at his heels, spurring him to continue. “Y’ not a soldier, Andrew.”

Not anymore. This sea-faring incarnation was closer to Andrew the First than his military counterparts. He resembled a shopkeeper from a quiet settlement more than a formidable militiaman or revolutionary officer.

Andrew took offence, naturally. His lip twitched and his own gaze narrowed.

“Not yet.” He whispered.

For all the hurt he must’ve felt from his company’s disagreement, he let none of it cloud his voice. His ever-level tone remained, and his former righteousness was dimmed for fear it might come across as anger. He wasn’t angry at Edward.

Which might have been amusing, since Edward was certainly angry at him.

The taller man knocked back his whisky with a strangled laugh. Mocking the words openly and feeling no remorse for the sound. His cup slammed back against the wood.

“If you say so.” He hissed.

He slithered from his chair and began marching towards the bedroom. There was no door separating the rooms for him to loudly slam. Either he’d be joined in their bed and would have to decide whether he would pettily turn towards the wall – or the blond would choose pettiness himself and lie down in the spare bed. A mattress that hadn’t seen use for several years.

Either way, they’d be lucky if they slept comfortably tonight.

As he aggressively pulled the furs back and began tugging his breeches off, Edward could hear Andrew speak from the other room. Quietly, barely heard above the popping of the hearth.

“I can’t stand idly by while men bleed on my behalf.” He said. He must’ve been speaking into his whisky again.

Somehow, that only made Edward’s blood burn hotter.

Andrew did crawl into bed eventually.

The fire in his eyes faded to embers that evening, but the heat remained. There was no dousing that fiery rage, righteous and pure. It crackled behind his gaze and Edward could see it when the blankets pulled back.

He let the blond lay down beside him. He’d been stupid to think he ever wouldn’t.

Gentle fingers stroked his curls, a warm weight resting over his chest. A strong, loving grip wrapped around his waist and the trapper enjoyed a chaste kiss to his forehead.

They slept together, just like always.

Edward tried very, very hard to continue on as normal. To preserve their simple, peaceful, uninterrupted happiness through sheer force of will.

He skinned his catches and he presented the other man with his best furs as winter approached, hoping the gifts would placate him. He cooked their meals and salted their extra crops for storing and religiously topped up the whisky jug. He buffed their boots on the porch and aggressively hammered out the creaks in the cabin and chopped as much wood as they could ever need, until his hands were blistered from the angry, fearful motions. He made all the trips to buy supplies, to sell his furs, to draw water from the creek – and always hurried back, anxious not to leave his company alone.

And every day, Andrew grew quieter. Lost in the sea of his thoughts, fading to simple gratitude’s and half-laughs when prompted.

It was Edward’s fault. He knew that.

Every attempt his love made to talk about the war, their situation, he dismissed. Aggressively, in most instances. Never anything better than mocking grunts or a turned back.

He wouldn’t consider it. He’d work and he’d fume and he wouldn’t consider it.

It became hard to look Andrew in the eye. The trapper couldn’t bear to catch the sadness he might find.

Andrew crawled into bed with him some time later, just like always.

His chest fell with a heavy exhale and he seemed brighter than before. Perhaps he’d navigated the storm in his head and had sailed into clearer straights. Whatever caused his lazy smile, Edward didn’t care. He only blinked his sleepiness away and grinned hopefully back.

“I’m sorry.” Andrew whispered in the dark. His hand caressed Edward’s cheek as he said it.

In the low light, the trapper couldn’t read his eyes properly. He didn’t think he needed to and took the apology as he heard it; for the short Hell the man had put him through, attempting to press a conversation they were never going to have.

“Don’t be.” He muttered. “I know it means a lot t’ you.”

The blond hummed and nodded. It certainly did. He was willing to put that aside tonight, lips brushing his company’s and pressing down. The mattress dipped and Edward whimpered happily. He’d missed this. Decades without it, he could miraculously endure, yet he was left weak by a few short days.

It was the withholding that got to him.

His hands ran up Andrew’s sides lovingly, caressing over his ribs and sliding up his back. Their bodies were pulled closer and they arched into the heat. Between hums of pleasure, the blond managed to speak against his lips.

“I love you.” He said in the dark.

The weight of his tone sunk through Edward’s chest, seeping into the mattress and dripping onto the floorboards. It twisted his gut and pulled downwards, a ton of bricks suffocating him.

He didn’t notice. Because Andrew was kissing him passionately, prizing open his thighs and repeating the words against his throat. That same fervour was biting his heels as he growled and the trapper was swept away by it, desperate to position himself so he could sate that feeling.

He was distracted. How had he become so distracted?

How could be blind enough not to hear how desperate Andrew sounded, how every shuddering motion in their bed reeked of a climatic ending?

Edward said it before and he would say it again; this Andrew was not a soldier.

Soldiers were particularly good at packing their bags and collecting their shit, before sliding off into the night. Whether for a raging battle or pleasurable company didn’t matter. Slipping out of a twelve-man barracks took skill.

Skill Andrew Haldane the Current did not possess.

He made it to the bedroom doorway, at least. All kitted out in fur pelts against the cold and rations slung over his back. Bastard even had their rifle lent against his shoulder, upheld as a military man might. Playing soldier even as Edward’s old canteen rattled against his hip, none the wiser to the many forgotten drinks they’d shared from such a flask.

He’d clearly gotten dressed outside the bedroom. If he’d gone straight out the door and hadn’t returned there, he might have gotten to the stable without waking his housemate. Instead, he’d slipped back to their bed for one last look.

It’d cost him. He was making his way towards the bedroom doorway when he heard the snap.

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare.” Edward spat.

Andrew couldn’t help his smile as he hung his head and sighed. He turned back to the bed carefully, finding his pistol in a firm grip and the hammer pulled back to fire. Edward hadn’t bothered getting up from the mattress, their blankets and furs preserving his modesty where he sat naked. He’d stopped wearing his nightshirt to bed a while ago.

The reason for which was currently grinning at him sheepishly, tired eyes filled with guilt and resignation.

“I recall the last time we found ourselves like this,” Andrew mused, “I chose not to pull the trigger.”

He watched the trapper’s lip curl into a snarl. An expression deeper than Hell and angry in a way just five years together could never create.

“I’m not so kind-hearted.” Edward growled.

Drawing a steadying breath, Andrew lowered the rifle from his shoulder. Its butt came to the floorboards and rested there, his hands folded over the muzzle. He held it upright, with his canteen and powder pouch, and stood facing his company. His eyebrow arched and he waited, unimpressed.

He appeared exactly as a soldier would. Exactly as he _had_ , years ago.

It made Edward’s hand shake. A lurch took his chest, the sob he forced back behind gritted teeth strangling him. He hoped it choked him to death and he could finally finish this century-long farce. How much he could endure was becoming a pressing question at the back of his mind.

Five years of bliss, and God’s fingers were back on his life. Pressing him down and plucking Andrew away, reminding him of what he’d done to deserve this.

The rifle was immediately placed against the wall. The pistol fell with a clatter against the floorboards as strong arms wrapped around him. Firm hands buried themselves in curly hair as a tearful face buried itself in the blond’s chest, wracked with sobs bitter and old.

Muffled by the fur, Andrew was certain he heard Edward speak. He was preoccupied with laying soothing kisses to the man’s locks and didn’t ask.

He was sure he said, ‘Don’t leave me _again’_.

In the winter of 1812, Andrew Haldane awoke to an empty bed.

(He couldn’t say he didn’t expect it or that he didn’t deserve it. The night before had seen him recklessly attempt to leave without having the courage to say Goodbye. He hadn’t wanted the sunlight around, cold as it was, to illuminate the pain he’d find on Edward’s face.)

He stumbled naked to the bedroom doorway, supporting himself on the frame as he scanned the cabin for his lover.

He found a grim looking fur trapper sat at their table.

Awake, dressed, and expertly folding powder into cartridges. He had his coat on, a canteen on his hip, and his hat was folded up on one side. The side on which a man would shoulder a rifle, no less. Two portions of food supplies were packed into neat sacks, along with blankets and a bayonet one of them hadn’t known they’d owned. Andrew’s boots were shined and waiting by the table leg.

When he met the blond’s eyes, he found them burning anew. Pride was fuelling the flames.

Along the ride to Richmond, about halfway to their destination, they stopped.

They stepped off the track, which Andrew wrongly assumed was to enjoy some illicit relations. (He’d been right the last several times. Though he assured his company that both the navy and army were rife with men like them, he wasn’t going to refuse enjoying privacy they still had.)

Instead, Edward put down his supplies. He set down the blond’s too and stood behind him. He left the rifle, reaching around his company to position it in his hands.

Andrew didn’t ask why. The warm, calloused fingers against his wrists were trustworthy. He allowed himself to be situated, holding pose after pose as the trapper moved him through the motions of shouldering a weapon, then lowering it to the ground at ease.

“Drills.” Edward eventually said. He repeated the motions again, gaining speed with each repetition.

“Why?” His student whispered. He didn’t move to stop the actions.

“You’ll do well as an officer.” Came the reply. “Pretendin’ t’ have some experience will help.”

The taller of the two felt the deep inhale he caused. With his chest against Andrew’s back, pressed close as he continued his instruction, he recognised the surprise ignited in the man. It remained a rare and satisfying occurrence to catch his love off guard.

“I have no intention-” The blond began.

The snap of the rifle against his shoulder, pulled violently towards him, cut him short. Edward’s strong hands were pressed tightly over his, hugging around him as they both clutched the weapon. There was a face pressed into Andrew’s neck, those arms around him possessive. He lent into the hold.

“You’ll do _well_ as an officer.” Edward repeated.

The conversation they were never going to have had to be had.

Edward admitted he feared the sea. The rolling waves were a mountain man’s worst nightmare, never mind his hatred of ships themselves. He’d wasted several good years rotting in a hulk floating on dark waters.

Andrew assured him there were other options. The army, for example.

This suggestion was rejected. The army would be difficult to squeeze a Lieutenant Haldane into, with the man’s experience being navally orientated. The blond could deny he was ever truly in a navy, as it was against his will, but his skills were undeniably seafaring.

There was, of course, a middle road between the two.

It was the third time Edward wore a uniform.

He hadn’t worn one much during the revolution, often relegated to whatever clothes were around. He pulled the white pants and dark, gilded jacket of the Marine Corps over his shirt with great care. The spats were uncomfortable after years without them. With the black peaked hat in his hands, the ensemble felt too dashing and too familiar all at once.

The smile Andrew gave was his real reward, as the man took the cap from his hands and placed it firmly upon his head.

It would never live up to his officer’s trim and gilded sword, but it was a start.

Like all things in life, he got used to it.

‘It’ being the updated military jargon, the latest fixes of the newest cannons, being a private again for a while. ‘It’ being the sea, the rocking motions of a boat that had him heaving over the side, much to his comrades’ merciless mockery. ‘It’ being the separation, the hours he had to occupy cleaning his musket and buffing his boots, waiting for either his love to summon him or a promotion to land in his lap.

‘Trapper’ became ‘sailor-soldier’, expected to balance firing through portholes and charging up grassy hilltops without complaint. He hadn’t internalised what a marine was yet. Sounded a little too French for his tastes.

It was all worthwhile. Andrew got his commission.

Edward got used to it.

Rum was back on the menu. At least, for Andrew it was.

Officers got the expensive stuff. Edward got diluted whisky, measured ungenerously to exactly a half-pint. He complained about this often.

He’d receive the beautiful bells of his captain’s chuckle in response, followed by a grip on his cup. Andrew poured a generous helping of rum inside, shaking his head all the while. He had always been kind like that.

The room creaked. The ship was quiet tonight. If anyone noticed Sergeant Jones out of his hammock, they’d assume he was on deck relieving himself. Which wasn’t untrue, he was just relieving himself in a different sense. And he wasn’t on deck doing it.

That, or he wouldn’t be questioned at all.

He’d awoken on numerous occasions to the squeaking of ropes and the hushed groans of men enjoying themselves. While he blushed like the old puritan he technically was, he relished the sound. God bless the Navy.

The officer’s quarters were tightly fit but at least they had four walls.

“How’s y’ leg?” He asked after finishing his borrowed rum.

He perched himself on the edge of Andrew’s cot. The man’s smile was crooked and darkened by his crude humour.

“Better now you’re here to ease the pain.” He said, rolling the words over his tongue. They tasted delicious.

They both chuckled. Edward didn’t press the matter, though it was clear he wanted to. His gaze lingered on the officer’s calf, bare besides course bandages, cushioned by several folded sacks. The lasting imprint of their recent frigate duel. A cannon ball had splintered the ship and sent an unfortunate shard into his captain’s leg.

Lieutenant’s leg, actually. Andrew had been promoted for continuing to fight on with his marines, despite bleeding profusely. They’d performed well.

Edward hadn’t run crying to him when he’d heard that familiar shout of pain; he’d learnt that much. He’d done exactly as his commanding officer had told him and stayed firing through the gunport. (He hoped those two British sailors he struck between the eyes were manning the guilty cannon.)

This was the aftermath. His love had survived.

“Well, they didn’t have to amputate.” Andrew mused.

He sent an apologetic glance his company’s way as he received a fearful expression. A soft “Oh, Ed…” escaped him, humbled by how poorly his joke was received.

He beckoned with his fingers, wanting to soothe the man’s concerns. The sergeant went willingly, drawn by little more than a hand gesture. (His captain could point off a cliff and he would march over the edge, a skip in his step and a song in his heart. He swore he would and he didn’t think that unhealthy.)

Right now, he pulled off his spats and breeches. His undershirt too, though that was because he knew his love liked to see all of him. He’d gotten used to that back in Greenbrier.

He was careful where he straddled Andrew’s lap, hesitant as he kept glancing at the man’s wounded leg. The thought of jogging the dressings unnerved him. It didn’t go unseen.

“I’m fine.” The captain said against his throat. He laid a reassuring kiss there, open-mouthed and attentive. “I promise.”

Edward’s forehead knocked against the wooden wall where he moaned softly. It stirred a satisfied hum from his company’s chest. Strong arms wrapped around his waist, grinding him down against the officer beneath him.

“Though you’ll have to do most of the work tonight.” Andrew chuckled. His company laughed and didn’t complain.

The waves outside were gentle and comforting.

They lost their ship to the British, surprise surprise. It was 1814.

It left them in a column of hundreds, marines on the march towards Washington from the coast. They were mustering as Bladensburg under some flotilla commander they didn’t know or care for.

Edward didn’t mind. He was happy to be on solid ground. It comforted him, the soil he knew so well. It had dirtied his hands and collected his tears for over a century.

It held the most precious things in the world to him in its grave embrace. He’d gladly die on it if he could.

The breeze carried the smell Edward knew well.

Blood upon the risers, the scent of approaching battle. The British were coming.

From their grassy slope, he could see the distant bridge their comrades would be defending. Why they didn’t burn it was beyond him. He chalked it up to his strategies being outdated. Nobody set things on fire these days.

The road led past his position. It dipped into a creek he could hear the water bubbling in if he listened. He didn’t.

The cannon he sat beside was one of five. They’d dragged them up here earlier, a real chore of an exercise for a pathetic haul. Edward guarded them silently, chewing on a blade of grass with his arms on his knees. Peacefully left alone, thanks to God. Literally, the majority of men were taking silent communion and praying for victory. Their capital’s survival depended on it.

He watched the grass and waited for the distant bangs. Boots appeared by his side, coming to a stop so a calf could rest against his arm. There was a distinct limp in that step that couldn’t be ignored.

“They captured Napoleon, you know.” Andrew said. The lightness of his tone didn’t fit the stench in his company’s nostrils. “I imagine it’s why we’re being so mercilessly pursued.”

The enemy strength had increased significantly. Numbers didn’t matter; Edward knew veteran soldiers when he saw them. Even in the briefest of exchanges, locking eyes before his muzzle flashed.

He grunted his response. “Vive le France.”

A soft chortle met his ears. “ _La_.” His captain corrected. “ _La France_. She’s a lady.”

“Sorry.” His company said, humming to himself. “Wouldn’t know much ‘bout those.”

The grass rustled as Andrew sat down beside him. They shared their warmth, side by side. His attention was on his sergeant, though the man never turned to him, focused on the slopes of their soon-to-be battlefield.

The blond lifted his hand as he studied his love’s face. His fingers scooped up the ponytail he found, fingers moving through the curls with the upmost care. It had come loose from its prospective braid. Edward had never been good as plaiting it.

Shuffling his position, Andrew shifted onto one knee. His hands moved silently on with their duty. Once more, for old time’s sake, he braided Edward’s hair.

The captain laughed softly to himself, his unspoken joke finally getting the other man to turn his head. The explanation came as a fond and familiar chuckle, church bells on a winter morning.

“Une tresse de marine.” Andrew said.

The British arrived and they brought a deadly blow down with them.

If it made anyone feel better, the marines and their guns inflicted noticeable damage while they were still firing. Edward lost his cap somewhere while working the ramrod. It was hard work that relied on confidence and brute force. He had both, under Andrew’s command.

“Come now, boys!” He heard his captain cry. “Would you rather be shot in the back or die by your guns?!”

Sergeant Jones would be the first the start the rallying cry, a yelled response as another enemy shot sprayed earth across their number. “Aye, we’ll die by our guns, sir!”

His voice was no longer his own, accompanied by a chorus of equally furious marines. An unfamiliar and welcome sensation spread over his aching arms, glancing up from the cannon he prepared. Over black metal and hardworking bodies, to the beautiful blond in his officer’s coat.

He’d managed to keep his bicorne on. That didn’t stir pride in his sergeant’s heart so much as the pretty red plume in it did. It swayed in the wind and was desperately far from that ugly buff cockade.

Jacket undone and sleeves rolled up, dirt streaking his face and curls damp, Edward was content to gaze lovingly at Andrew without reward. His dishevelled state was unworthy of the glance he received in return.

His captain returned his stare. Loving and longing and happy to be by his side.

They missed the initial retreat order. They fended off charge after charge regardless.

They really were going to die by their guns. All bar one of them.

When Commodore Barney ordered them to fall back to avoid capture, Edward felt his knees weaken. Not from fear or anger but pure elation. He was prepared to fall to the ground at the commander’s feet, worship him as a God or any manner of crude actions. Anything to show his relief at having a competent command, memories of Braddock’s terrible retreat cast aside.

The sergeant didn’t need to be told twice, determined to avoid British capture. His captain did, reluctant to leave their wounded commodore behind.

Captain Haldane had never been the type to flee a battlefield.

They did flee. Northward, all the way to Baltimore.

Washington burned behind them.

Andrew wept at the news. Edward held his hand and took him somewhere nobody would see. He picked the man back up and moved them to a new battlefield.

At Baltimore, they had more than five guns. At Baltimore, they emerged victorious.

Captain Haldane surfaced without a scratch, same as Bladensburg. His superiors recommended him for a promotion, a step beyond the rank he’d held unknowingly for sixty years.

All the while, Edward’s heart grew heavier. He felt his luck running out, exhausted by each battle.

God was flexing His fingers.

Back on the ship they went.

Edward wished they didn’t have to. He preferred the idea of dying by their guns, even if he couldn’t indulge it. Maybe that was because Andrew said it.

Squinting down his musket sight, Edward recognised the letters ‘H.M.S’ across the enemy’s ship.

Slow reader that he was, he digested them too easily. A nasty, bitter taste, but a taste he knew well. He swallowed it down and placed his finger on the trigger.

Through the rigging he sat in, he could see Andrew. His stare was cold as he positioned his marines at the gunports and up atop the mast. They were known for their sharpshooting and they were going to need it.

The worst kind of rain began to fall. The kind made of heavy lead and grapeshot, replaced in the air by splintering wood and dying men’s cries. It rocked Edward and he slipped, yelling as his joints snapped painfully. His musket fired blindly into the air. He hung sideways until his scrabbling hand could find the rope, tugging himself upright.

The skin of his palms burned. Another shot blasted the deck, sending debris bursting over him. He shielded his eyes and cursed loudly.

All he wanted was to return the favour, should they give him a moment’s peace to do it.

His cheek was scratched deeply by a flying splinter. Blood dribbled down over his mouth, curly hair wild where the rigging had dragged his braid free. They’d pay dearly for that, mussing the pretty plait Andrew had weaved.

His yells of pain hadn’t gone unnoticed, even against their louder counterparts. Cannons roaring and guns firing, sails smacking in the wind and orders bellowing across the ship. Men were being dragged below deck, forearms torn clean from their elbows, yet their captain somehow heard his lover’s cry.

Below him, Andrew looked up. He must have seen the blood over his face and the pain in his expression. The blond started crossing the deck, eyes burning as he marched.

“Jones-!” He cried, pointing up at him aggressively, “Are you-?!”

The Good Lord interrupted him. A single intervention, perhaps on a British sailor’s aim or maybe on the cannon ball itself. It didn’t matter; the destination was the same.

The enemy struck one of their powder stores. The deck exploded.

The U.S.S Worthwhile, it was called. That was the ship Andrew Haldane would die on.

Every other man was preoccupied by the flames. Every other man was scrambling to save their sinking fortress. Every other man feared for his life.

Amongst them, Edward fought to find Andrew.

The explosion had shattered the wood of the deck and sent one of the masts tumbling into the sea. It dragged sails and sailors with it, sailors and marines crushed mercilessly beneath its weight. Splinters sliced through the rigging and the sergeant hit the taffrail with a loud crack. He fell, fortunately, on the deck side and not directly into the waves he feared.

He loathed the moments it took to get back on his feet. Fending off the ringing in his ears that kept him on his knees, deafening him mercifully to the screams. It kept him from finding his love, opening his mouth in a bone-cracking yell against the pain that split his head. He didn’t hear it so he pretended no sound came out.

If he was ordered to do something else, he wasn’t listening. His staggering was only for the opposite railing, shoes slipping on the slick red deck as he dragged himself to the other side.

That was where he’d seen Andrew fall, seen him blown back by the force of the blast. He found no body.

Below, the waves danced angrily as he hauled himself up by the rigging. Edward was struck by how dark they were. Amongst the black, he could see a red plume floating on the surface.

Unlike the James River, the water was definitely deep enough to dive into. Deeper than Hell.

He’d reacted slowly this time, thanks to the concussion he was no doubt enduring and the broken ribs he chose to ignore. He’d waited those precious seconds and Andrew had already hit the water. He was making new mistakes he never had before.

All he wanted was to glimpse a flash of white pants or a lock of blond hair below those icy waters. He didn’t.

Edward jumped regardless.

In his mind, he dived after Andrew and swam down to find him.

The foggy sea and pounding in his head made it hard to tell what was real and what was not. Edward was sure he saw a pale hand, reaching for help. He was sure he grabbed for it, kicked himself towards it, but was pulled back by his own spineless need for air.

Somewhere in the depths, he knew there had to be a dark jacket, a red sash, white pants. There had to be blond hair and handsome features, unconsciously sinking in blissful ignorance or contorted in struggling fury.

Edward ducked back under the water again. He would find them, in the dark of the sea. He’d find them and bring them back up, even if he cast himself down to Hell to do it.

Like all his pursuits, he failed. He glimpsed that sinking face and a trail of rising blood and he couldn’t reach it. He couldn’t reach. His head broke the surface with a dying gasp.

He choked on seawater and his own sobs.

All the running Andrew had done, and this was the ending. Of course. They should have known better.

The Lord was cruel in His irony and patient in His wit. Their comedy needed a fitting punchline.

As Edward floated in the water, head falling back every so often as it wracked him with pain, he could see the Worthwhile burning. Distantly, the current having drifted him far from the flames. Rescue laid within a desperate swim’s reach, should he choose to work for it.

There’d been a promise he’d made, under the same sky but on a different ship. The Jersey, it was called. He wasn’t going to break it, no matter how despicable the alternatives.

Besides, he’d lost Andrew for a fourth time. What did he have left to swim for.

The darkness was coaxing him with warm, loving tendrils. It felt better than the shivers that wracked him in the cold water, the crunching of his ribs every time he drew a shaky breath. The daylight reminded him he could no longer see that red plumed hat.

Edward stopped resisting. He closed his eyes. He sunk into unconsciousness and the depths below.

He dearly hoped he drowned.

He washed up on the bank of the river mouth, clad only in his shirt and white pants. Dirty, cold, and soaked to the bone. His shoes were lost to the ocean swell; the irony of the situation was not.

No stranger would be dragging him out the river.

After choking up filthy seawater, Edward managed to crawl up the beach. Seaweed and sand came with him, watery blood dripping from his cut cheek.

He was left on his knees, elbows in the mud, as he pressed his forehead to the earth he’d missed so terribly. Nobody was around to see him, which numbed his humiliation. Nobody was around to help him, either.

He didn’t know if he was crying. His heaving chest could be sobbing as easily as it could be gasping for air. How long he’d been in the water, he couldn’t tell.

He couldn’t remember.

Something about his shivers, a violent trembling that should be forcing him into his grave, pulled a laugh from his chest. A sound as unwilling as his shaking, compelled by pain that ran from his beaten skull down through his broken ribs to his scratched feet.

Edward curled his fists into the filth of the riverbank and laughed until he choked up more seawater.

What was funny, he couldn’t say. The answer might come to him, were it not for his pounding headache. Perhaps he’d finally slipped into the pit of madness he’d so valiantly been resisting. He’d scrabbled and clawed, until his nails were bloody, kicking and yelling and begging for someone to stop his slipping, but alas – he’d fallen into insanity.

Four reincarnations and no end in sight would do that to a man.

So he laughed and he sat back on his knees and he laughed some more. Towards a Heaven he would never see, hands dangling uselessly in his lap and never again to be placed together in prayer. Damp curls bounced merrily against his skin as he howled with laughter, hoping death would hear him and detest the sound. Then he might be put out his misery.

He had to stave off the madness, he knew that. He had to hold the storm at bay, push back the tide with his strength and his stubbornness and his love for a man he would never, ever deserve.

On that riverbank, on his knees in the mud, Edward gave up on the idea of atoning for the sin he’d committed a century prior. This was the punishment and it was so wildly excessive, he’d lost all sympathy. He gave up on reconciling God’s good graces.

He gave up on God, too.

He pointed his finger upwards and opened his eyes wide. Saint Peter would be getting that firepoker up the ass he’s promised, and so would any divine being who tried to stop him. None would succeed; he was immortal.

“One more time!” He yelled to the sky, clear and unending where it passed over him. “An’ a thousand more! I can do this forever!”

He _could_ do this forever. He’d accepted his fate, fourth time the charm. (Lying felt good. It felt right to speak dishonestly and pretend it was the truth.)

Taking a fistful of mud, Edward tossed the filth at the Heavens. It arched above him and came to splatter back down to earth, landing along the shore.

“I will wait-” He spat, violent determination forcing his words, “- _forever!_ ”

Forever stared back at him, in a grey sky and passing birds. They tweeted cheerfully as he pulled himself up. Bare feet stamped in the mud as they drove him from the coast, exactly as Andrew had wanted. Stumbling and heaving all the way.

The marine walked with a fearless step, head held high against the splitting headache and the burning in his side. He stumbled with purpose, like he knew what he stood for, like he knew where he was headed.

Like he knew how long forever was.

He walked and he walked and he dragged himself when he couldn’t walk anymore. No kindly doctors tended to his wounds; no respectful strangers gave him a ride. No one came to his aid and his snarling grin would keep them away.

It became less of a grin with each step. It was just a snarl by the time he reached the nearest town.

He didn’t ask for help, or food, or shelter. He took the free drink the barkeep fearfully offered him and he choked it back like it could cure him of every ailment he had, past and present. Then he demanded to know where the nearest barracks was. Navy, preferably, but he’d take the army too.

Fuck them both. He was neither.

A hesitant finger pointed him away from the quiet town he’d disturbed. He’d washed up in North Carolina, apparently. Good for him.

It went on like that. He continued walking.

He found the navy barracks. They sent him onto the nearest marine barracks, who sent him back towards Washington. They gave him a clean uniform and some boots to match, along with some papers with their seal of approval. Deserters tended not to present themselves, dripping in seawater, and this would prove such.

They wouldn’t give him a gun. Shame.

He found his way back to Washington and the dockyard there. Burning things down _was_ still in fashion; the capital looked a real horror show. He was glad Andrew never saw it.

By the time he reached the city, the war was over. Less than three years, finished. It didn’t relieve him as it should.

It turned bitter in his mouth, a river’s filth on his tongue. What a waste. Nothing gained on the country’s part and everything lost on his. Pathetic and stupid and pathetic again.

He stood on parade in silence at the barracks and waited. Not an officer there wanted to look him in the eye. His horse wasn’t around but they’d kept his old clothes and rifle for him. He took his pay, changed into his breeches and furs, and threw his uniform into the gutter on his way out. They’d told him to return it somewhere, but he hadn’t listened.

Someone would find it and be terribly offended. They could die mad about it.

Heading through the scorched streets of Washington, Edward decided Greenbrier wasn’t worth returning to. He’d milked every bit of joy he could out of that cabin; wallowing in its silent misery for another twenty years didn’t excite him. Besides, he could go back to it later. It wasn’t like he was getting any older.

With his rifle back on his shoulder and an apple in his hand – stolen, let him be judged for it, and not as sweet as western Virginia’s – the marine decided he wanted to travel. See the states he’d created – or _Andrew_ had created – and have a Goddamn look at what they’d been bleeding for.

Not the north eastern ones, obviously. They remained distasteful to him and he was a man of his word.

North Carolina sounded interesting. Old John Burgin had thought so, if his passenger remembered correctly, heading back that way after the war. (The first one.) He’d be dead by now, as would Arthur Sledge, who had also hailed from the south. Their sentiments lived on.

Tossing the apple up and grabbing it out the air as it fell, Edward determined that was where he was headed. He was going to travel and explore the lower end of his country. Food and shelter and money weren’t required. He’d figure those out when needed. The solid wage packet he’d earned and another pension under his belt would help him along. (Pensions were easier to claim these days.)

He was going to travel. That was it.

For the next twenty years, he was going to travel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- "Rum, sodomy, and the lash." is a Churchill quote when he described the 'traditions of the Royal Navy'. After reading some good books about it, he's pretty fucking right.  
> \- I found out the American "rum ration" wasn't rum because they were cheap, which is so disappointing.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit note: The opening chunk of this chapter has been moved into the end of the last one shortly, it fit better there.

**_~~1807~~. 1834._ ** _  
~~Commonwealth of Virginia~~. State of South Carolina, United States of America._

By 1834, he’d noticed that nobody in over two decades had called him a paddy.

He’d grown used to the fond or insulting nickname, company dependent, way back in Virginia. It was what they called his bastard of a father so it was what they’d call his bastard of a son too. In politer company, he’d be asked where his family ‘hailed from’.

He’s say Ulster and leave it at that. Who knew if that place still existed today, or ever had at all. He held no pride for it.

They’d stopped asking. They’d stopped calling him paddy, or Irish, or Scots. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly when. Sometime long before he’d pulled a certain blond man out a river.

His accent had changed. Instead of paddy, he got slanted smirks and questions about the backcountry. Mountain man, they called him. Virginian, fur trapper. (That one was fading too; he wasn’t doing much fur trapping these days.)

He liked that, a rare positive change in his life.

Say what he would about the south, it sure was popular.

Three new states in as many years. Andrew’s country was getting bigger by the day and Edward wasn’t sure if that was what he would’ve wanted.

Who cared what his captain had wanted; he was but a single officer in a single army in a single war. A fleeting featured moment in time, snipped before its performance had finished.

Thoughts like that were what drove Edward into the drink, he swore.

Lamenting what could or might have been, despite knowing full well what was impossible. The moment Andrew Haldane met Edward Jones, the ticking of the clock began. His days were instantaneously numbered, though the exact amount was a mystery.

Five years was a rough estimate. Sometimes six or seven. He’s enjoyed ten with Andrew the First.

Patterns made coincidences made facts. Edward groaned audibly as he rested his forehead on the bar counter. Even using his fingers to count made his skull ache. Whether that was from the liquor or the mathematics was yet to be debated.

A whistle from the bartender and snapping of his fingers – a degrading reprimand usually reserved for dogs – brought Edward’s head back up. He straightened his spine and grunted his acknowledgement bitterly. He went back to leaning on his elbows and fiddling with his whisky glass.

In two decades touring the ass-end of the United States, he’d learned not to fight men who talked down to him. Patience would be the wrong word; it simply wasn’t worth the effort. Those who would smile disapprovingly at the mountain man in their midst outnumbered him tenfold.

Numbers weren’t his strong suit, but he’d been in a one-sided bar fight before. It had ended poorly. (And beautifully.)

He’d let these southern gentlemen get on with their ungentlemanly damnation, scorning the stranger in their bars. Didn’t bother him so long as they accepted his currency. Dollars truly did speak for all classes of people.

Edward took a final swig of his drink, leaving it terribly empty. He tapped it on the wooden counter and asked for more. The warm liquid refilled his glass only after he’d handed over a handful of coins. He was certain the liquor was watered down.

Whatever. Such was his lot in Charleston.

He’d stopped counting his sips when he drank by the time he’d reached Florida, awful place that it was. Swampy, wet, hot beyond belief. He didn’t like it there and marched swiftly back north. That was over a decade ago. He was crossing off states he’d return to with frightening speed.

He’d sold his rifle somewhere in Georgia. That exchange was funding his drinking habit now.

A heavy mouthful, that had his throat making an ugly little croak, brought Edward back to reality. An unfortunate reality, one where he remembered why he’d kicked open the door of a South Carolina tavern. (The Turncoat’s Head, it was called. An ugly brick building.)

Twenty years, he was celebrating. Twenty years of walking and drinking and walking some more.

What could he recall of that time? Passing chatter supplied.

Napoleon finally bit it, for good this time. Vive la France. That new Dandy Horse appeared, idiotic device that it was. Edward believed in actually using the legs God gave you. Some country named after a pepper got its independence. Good for them and all but personally, Edward was more concerned about the Mexicans getting rowdy out west. Maybe he should go join in whatever was going on over there, he could travel further now. Railways were popping up and he’d made a fair share working on some of them.

Maybe he could catch a train out of this dump and onto the next.

He chuckled into his whisky. He forgave the bartender whistling at him like a mutt. He had equal distain for everyone else as they had for him. Bitterness for each type of person, all of them having wronged him at some point. It was a long record and the list never smudged.

The door swung open as more patrons entered the darkness of the bar. It was cooler in here than the scorching sun outside. A late summer hadn’t broken yet and autumn had yet to phase in. Even the dreary afternoon shadows of the tavern were preferable.

With a sigh, Edward swirled his whisky. He watched it pool and swish about the glass with great satisfaction. How far he’d come from Boston, drinking himself to death in exactly the same way.

Behind him, the chatter had grown louder. New arrivals weren’t welcome, apparently, and the former marine didn’t care why. He made his assumptions and didn’t turn round. He watched the barkeep slam the glass he was cleaning down and move to step out from behind the counter.

“Oh, no!” He was crying, pointing an accusing finger at the arguing customers, “You? _Out!_ Your type ain’t welcome in here!”

What a ruckus. It was disturbing Edward’s drink.

His crooked smile and stifled laugh was drawn out by his own joke. As if the likes of him could ever be disturbed by a brewing bar brawl. Dinner and a show, he supposed. Without the dinner.

A glass was thrown and it smashed somewhere against the wall. Its target had ducked and dodged the attack. Another dainty sip on Edward’s part punctuated the argument drawing to its natural conclusion, voices about to turn to violence. He knew a fight when he heard it and he wasn’t in the mood. (He’d stopped enjoying the feeling of strong men hitting him. It brought back sensations of combat he couldn’t shake.)

Still content to watch the liquid in his cup, he briefly wondered if he could duck out with a bottle of whisky under one arm. Wouldn’t be noticed, not with the barkeep apparently eager to get in on the scuffle.

An outnumbered scuffle, from the shouting he could catch. Only one man wasn’t welcome, and the entire tavern was about to make that crystal clear.

“I have every right to enter this public house, sir!” Said man was roaring, fervour biting his words and righteous anger fuelling his cries, “And your bitter retort shows me that this is _exactly_ the place I need to be!”

At the bar, far away in his satisfied neutrality, Edward’s eyes closed. He put a hand over his face, feeling the heat of his skin and the rush of the alcohol in his veins. He groaned and his pain rattled around his skull, vocalising his exhaustion and frustration and absolute _embarrassment_ for the situation.

The audacity of the Lord was truly awe-inspiring.

With a growl through gritted teeth, Edward knocked back the remainder of his whisky. He slammed the glass down and he stood up straight, tall, and menacing as ever. The fight had already started, and he strode towards it with his sleeves rolled up and his fists clenched hard enough to bleed.

Because he knew that voice. He knew it all too well.

And as Andrew Haldane was about to be dogpiled by an entire bar’s worth of enemies, Edward Jones’ fist slammed into the barkeep’s face.

The Battle of the Turncoat’s Head was unlike the Battle of the Green Dragon, sixty years prior.

It was far more thrilling. And far more violent.

Edward had never had his teeth kicked in quite so ruthlessly, but he’d also never punched a man until he couldn’t open his eyes either. Having squared his relationship with God - metaphorically shook hands with the divine on the agreement they wouldn’t speak and simply provoke each other in silence - he felt fine doing it.

Like in Boston, he bit a man’s hand when he was grabbed. He took a chunk out of the skin this time. He pulled his assailant over his back and stomped on his ribs. Then he went after whoever was daring to exchange blows with Andrew. He spun the first of the attackers around and floored him in one hard punch.

It left the blond and his unspoken ally face to face for a moment. There was blood streaming from the former’s nose and he was struggling against the brute trying to choke him out.

His eyes were so blue. Edward let out a short and breathless sigh, distracted for a second. His love was so handsome.

Then he pulled his fist back.

Andrew took the hint. He bit his assailant’s fingers in perfect mimicry of his saviour, then doubled over, ducking out of the crossfire.

The former marine punched their opponent across the jaw, knocking several teeth across the floorboards.

He could do this forever, he really could. Anything for the sight of those wonderful blue eyes, glancing up at him with a stunned smile and bewildered wonderment.

They spun in unison, bringing them back-to-back. Andrew grabbed an empty bottle from the table and Edward wiped the spittle from his lips.

He’d been waiting twenty years for this. There was no ending where this tavern saw the fall of the great Andrew Haldane.

The result was a drunken draw, a stalemate as sober patrons joined the fray. They were less interested in getting the blunt end of a marine’s fists and chose instead to throw the two instigators out the door.

Despite Andrew’s protests and struggling, Edward allowed himself to be pushed out. No reason to fight it, he didn’t want to be in that dump of a bar anyway.

They both stumbled in the dirt, chests heaving and doubled over in pain. They’d each taken a beating, despite the potentially fatal wounds they’d inflicted. (That _Edward_ had inflicted, really. Andrew could dodge well and hold his own but there was no debate who’d done the greater damage.)

The blond was stumbling around the side of the building, into the shade and seclusion of a wide alleyway. There he could find a little reprieve from the sun and peace to empty his stomach over the ground. Edward staggered after him, resting his ass against the brickwork and clutching his thighs where he bent over. The scar above his hip ached with a fiery sting and there was a blackeye blooming against his features. It left him squinting, gasping for air.

He remained in better shape than his company. There was blood in the man’s vomit, and the marine looked away with a laugh and shake of his head.

Amateur hour had struck the clock and he loathed to see it.

Andrew was young again. Maybe a year or so older than Boston, wearing a crisp suit that was now dusted with all manner of filth. His tie was loose and his trousers free from one of his boots. He hadn’t straightened up as he retched again for good measure. His frock coat was pretty.

If he’d had a hat at any point, he no longer possessed it. It left his overgrown blond hair on full display, stopping just before his neckline. Such was the fashion, these days.

Edward gazed longingly at those locks, relishing the flashes of brass in the sunlight. He’d missed them intimately.

He hoped he’d be allowed to run his fingers through them within the next half-decade.

The spell couldn’t last. Andrew had straightened up, rubbing his beaten jaw and turning around to face his unrequested ally. His footing was unstable and he took a moment to settle himself.

His company waited, his expression unamused where he rested against the wall.

“Thank you.” Andrew managed to force out, panting around the words.

His smile was radiant, smeared with the blood from his nose and split in his lip. The pad of his thumb ran over the cut, feeling it for a moment. He huffed, satisfied in what he found.

His back cracked where he straightened up fully. He didn’t flinch. (Edward did.) His fingers found the bottom of his jacket and he tugged it downwards. It moved back into its rightful place, along with his tie as he briefly fixed his attire. Finally, after smoothing back his hair, the blond extended a bloody hand.

“Andrew Haldane.” He introduced. “To whom do I owe my gratitude?”

After sucking in a steadying breath – filled with pain and elation and deep, dark discomfort – his company took the hand offered. Their palms clapped and Edward shook once. Firm and strong and never revealing how much he hated the formality.

“Edward Jones.” He muttered. His hand retreated quickly to his face, scrubbing at the filth and blood drying there.

“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Jones.” Andrew chirped. His delighted grin didn’t match his dishevelled attire. “I’m always thrilled to meet another soldier to the cause.”

What he could possibly be referring to escaped their shadowed alley. The taller slowed his motions, pausing where he still tried to rub the red steaks from his nose. He brought his hand down and wiped it on his breeches. His eyes followed it downwards.

“What cause would that be?” He grunted.

The blond’s brow creased. He seemed fondly confused.

“Abolition, of course.” He stated, with all the confidence of a righteous man. “The antidote to the greatest injustice to plague our nation.”

A punch in the throat would been better received.

Edward’s eyes closed and he audibly groaned, head hitting the wall where he turned his face skyward. “Oh, _God_.”

He should be more guarded. Would be, were it not for the whisky in his veins and the pounding in his head and sinking of his heart.

Justice ran in the Haldane bloodline. Edward’s life would be far too whimsical if it didn’t.

Of all the politics and movements and rising tides he had avoided, this was the one he had been most religious about. There was violence to be found amongst this particular topic and he felt entitled to remaining uninvolved.

He was a poor man; always had been, always would be. The closest he’d ever come to wealth had been his early years Boston, and that had been a far cry from some plantation owner. This debate did not concern him.

Monongahela might have been his fight, if you squinted and claimed the French a threat to the frontier. Boston and the revolution was good for him, but wasn’t his first priority nor his personal vendetta. The war in 1812 hadn’t been his fight, that was certain. It had been his lover’s and he had paid the price.

And now, this.

This was not his fight and Edward was enraged that it had been handed to him on a platter. Eat up.

A battle that wasn’t his was going to drag them both down into the depths again. That thought cut him deeply, tasting like seawater and gun smoke.

This was going to get one of them killed. And that wasn’t fair.

Pushing himself off the wall with an angry snarl, Edward stomped down the alley. He shoved Andrew’s shoulder as he went. If it weren’t for the pure rage riding the alcohol in his veins, he might’ve been fighting back tears.

He wasn’t going to pretend to love another worthy cause just to be rewarded by heartbreak again.

“Mr. Jones, wait-!” The blond called after him.

There was dismay in his voice, confused and upset that he’d offended someone who’d been willing to bleed for him. Which was definitely a turn from the bar, where he’d been eager to insult every man around him.

Edward spun on his heel, almost at the end of the ally. Called back like the loyal company he was. The barkeep had been right to whistle for him like a dog.

He couldn’t even enact his own convictions around Andrew Haldane.

Instead, he pointed an accusing finger at the blond, shutting him up. Good, he needed to hear this.

“I ain’t some _abolitionist_!” The marine spat. He jerked his finger aggressively when he saw the follow-up question appear on his company’s lips. “An’ I ain’t a slaver neither! I don’t care about any a’ that!”

The only thing he cared about was currently staring back at him, blue eyes filled with disappointment.

In Andrew’s defence, he also looked embarrassed. His thumb was pressing into the palm of his other hand, no doubt feeling the indents of his nails where he’d made a tight fist.

The words cut through his confidence, his assertion that he’d found a friendly face amongst a city so hostile. The blood on his face grew stale and his dishevelled appearance shameful. He realised his arrogance in accosting someone who might have simply wanted to do what was right, politics aside.

“My apologies.” He said. No excuses, no pleas, no tears.

It forced a blunt bayonet through Edward’s chest. He choked silently, his heart breaking and the only tell being the smallest lurch of his throat. That formality would be the death of him. Please, let it be the death of him.

He could see this lifetime fading with the fire behind Andrew’s eyes.

This time, the marine was older. Older and wiser and smart enough to know that he couldn’t rekindle it. That flame wasn’t his, he didn’t understand it, and throwing himself on the pyre would only douse the thing.

In the shade of Charleston, he could react properly. He refused to wait and watch for Andrew to hit the ground, pushed by his own choices and a reckless, relentless pursuit of justice. He could see their mistakes coming and he couldn’t feed that beast anymore.

“Sorry I’m not what you expected.” Edward muttered.

After a long, yearning look, he turned. For the first time in over a century, he walked away.

It had been some time since he’d cried. Two decades, in fact.

They were fat, ugly tears. They weren’t loud or agonised; he sat in his rented room and let them fall. His sniffs were undignified and miserable, each blink releasing a fresh trail to cut through the dirt on his cheeks.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He regretted every inch of what he saw.

Dirty, bloody, and bruised features, snivelling quietly in a cheap board house. His shirt hadn’t been white in a thousand years; its rips were badly repaired without a pair of loving hands behind the stitches. His breeches were mercifully covered by his boots, hiding the old and tattered clothing that only elderly men clung to.

His curls were overgrown. He’d started tucking his ponytail down the back of his shirt. It was embarrassing and unfashionable, yet he couldn’t bring himself to cut it.

Some part of him wanted Andrew’s fingers running through it again. Another idiotic piece of him believed that possible.

He’d taken this lifetime and he’d thrown it against the wall. Beat it against the brick, bashed it again and again, desperate for it to be bent into shape. It had shattered instead, leaving only fragments at his feet.

After sitting alone and licking his wounds, Edward had regretted their discussion.

Wandering on his own had left an ugly colour on him. A shade of arrogance and belief in convictions he didn’t know he held. Whether they were right or not, he couldn’t say.

What he did know was that he wasn’t ready to meet Andrew again. He’d pushed him away and he’d used some political belief to justify it. Edward didn’t have political beliefs, that was the point. He believed in _Andrew_.

Fear was an insidious thing. It couldn’t be torn out and it had grown, unnoticed, in his gut. He was scared of what this lifetime might bring, of what he might have to witness this time around. His declaration to God on the shoreline felt more arrogant by the minute.

He laid his head down on the bed, curled in on himself pathetically. The sheets were cool. They felt emptier than they had in twenty years.

Edward assumed he wouldn’t see Andrew Haldane the Fifth after that.

The blond was a smart man. He could smell a town that wasn’t interested in his decrees or liberal sensibilities. He should leave, quickly, before the tide grew violent and overwhelmed him. He’d drowned once; he could drown again.

The Turncoat’s Head wasn’t far from where Edward stayed. He passed it on his way to buy his breakfast. His eyes were downcast though it wasn’t the patrons he feared.

The building itself reminded him of his idiocy. So, he wouldn’t look. Ignoring his problems had always borne such fruitful harvests.

On his way back from the baker, greedily tearing chunks from the loaf he’d purchased, he caught sight of brass-lit blond.

Perhaps he’d overestimated Andrew’s intelligence. As close to blasphemy as that thought felt, the marine had to consider it. There would be no logical reason for the man to be lingering by the doorway of that dirty bar.

He appeared agitated, checking his pocket watch. His cheeks were blown out, his unsubtle glances poking through the windows. He straightened his back, apparently steeling himself to enter.

Edward plucked him from the position with a firm, unrelenting grip. The blond gave a dignified little yelp as that large hand fisted in his collar, dragging him away from the tavern. His raised arms, ready to defend himself, dropped with his shoulders as he saw who grabbed him.

“Mr. Jones!” He gasped.

His smile was too happy for a man being dragged down the street against his will. Unlike the previous afternoon, he gave no resistance. He didn’t even ask to be freed or question where they were headed.

Edward didn’t glance his way. His stare burned under a deep scowl, fixed on the road ahead. Forward marching and determined to put them somewhere distant from potential danger.

A danger Andrew had been preparing to walk right back into. Nothing could placate that truth.

He better have a fine excuse ready or his new ‘ally’ might be inclined to beat some sense into him.

Eventually, they slowed as they reached the outskirts of town. Wealthier neighbourhoods, standing proud in the morning sunlight. Less likely to have violence on their clean streets or prying eyes searching for a fight.

The blond had managed to keep pace with an angrily marching marine, credit where credit was due. His grin never wavered, even as his company turned on him where they stopped. The grip on his collar was replaced by an aggressive snarl, bearing down on him and his nice suit.

“What the Hell were y’ doin’?” Edward hissed. “You lookin’ f’ more trouble, that it?”

Andrew didn’t flinch and simply let his smile grow. Like his counterparts before him, he lifted his chin and rose to the occasion. Exactly as expected.

“I wasn’t looking for trouble.” He stated.

The marine knew the tells of his honesty well. He still grunted, huffing in disbelief. “That right?” He snarled.

“Yes.” Andrew replied. “I was looking for _you_.”

Edward had underestimated his love again, left defeated in the wake of such beautiful words. His frown evaporated and his harsh demeaner went with it. Even towering an extra inch over his company, he became suddenly small, backing up a fraction. As if he’d been pushed, forced to recoil by the weight of the words and the warmth in his chest and the humility hitting him like a freight train.

Every muscle in his body twitched, desperate to place his arms, his hands, somewhere they shouldn’t be. Somewhere they weren’t allowed, not yet.

Not yet, he reminded himself. Not yet.

He’d been given a second chance. _Andrew_ had given him a second chance. He wouldn’t be squandering it.

“Why?” Edward asked softly. He needed to know.

The blond rubbed his chin, strong fingers moving over his handsome jawline. A split lip and bruised cheeks did nothing to scratch at his marble features. He seemed to consider his words carefully, chewing over whatever had so eagerly brought him back to the mouth of danger.

What spurred him wasn’t easily expressed, even in the relative privacy of an unnoticed street corner. It was a tranquil morning; the birds were chirping.

Edward waited. He held his breath and he would let himself choke before he broke his silence.

“I have a _proposition_ for you.” Andrew said.

He was smiling again.

My, what a proposition it was.

It lasted the entire walk back to Andrew’s lodgings. Along main road after side street after hastily ducked-in alleyway when they spotted a certain group of individuals. The blond assured that he wasn’t afraid of the fight, but Edward didn’t care for his honour code. Those men from the tavern would just spoil their pleasant morning. It would be wasted effort to obstruct them.

Andrew was animated again, moving his hands in perfect movements, illustrating his points with firm fingers. Rolled up sleeves in the warm weather, jacket laid in the crook of his elbow, allowed his company to admire his strong arms. They’d gone nowhere since last time and had the taller man rubbing the back of his neck.

The skin there was sweaty. Because of the sun, of course, nothing more.

The proposition, then. It came with an introduction Edward didn’t require but enjoyed nonetheless.

This incarnation of Andrew Haldane was indeed from Massachusetts, unsurprisingly as ever. He was the son of a textile importer and had inherited quite the fortune. He was only twenty and his trajectory was driving him far from home.

He’d brought his pursuit of justice south; he was a public speaker, a politician of sorts, a troublemaker of others. A reckless, relentless, ruthless man who intended on dragging his opinions all the way to Louisiana and back.

He expected to leave a blazing trail in his wake. Whether of devoted followers or angry pitchforks, he seemed not to care.

“Abolitionism is a just cause.” He exclaimed, “And any just cause is worthwhile to pursue.”

Edward cared little for those parts of the explanation; the fragments of political debate intended to entice him to action. They failed; nothing short of the divine could move the stubborn mountain man. (He included Andrew himself in the category of ‘divine’. If any priest wanted to take him up on the blasphemy, they could join the queue. It started just behind a dead pastor, rotting in a ditch on Andover’s hillside.)

What the former marine did find interesting was the blond’s career choice. It fit snugly, tailored like his fine suit. His strong voice and long-proven ability to rally men continued to serve him through the ages.

Back to the proposition unfolding in Edward’s lap, he found the story an ongoing one.

Andrew was travelling through the southern states, preaching his cause, with all the funds and courage he could ever need. He’d stalled, however, as the pushback against him became vicious. Resistance was appearing as his name grew recognisable and detractors turned to violent opponents. How incredibly predictable.

This was where Edward Jones entered the stage, met with deafening silence from the audience. He hadn’t read the script and appeared highly uncomfortable with his role.

Much as he did outside Andrew’s rented lodgings, shuffling his feet as the man wrestled with the key. Those handsome features were contorted in frustration for a moment, cursing the bad craftmanship he was woefully unfamiliar with. His speech had stopped, more’s the pity, leaving his company with a moment to actually reply.

“Y’ want me to… _accompany_ you?” He asked.

He received a brief exclamation of success first – a short “Ah!” as Andrew twisted the key and freed the lock – before the door swung open. An extended hand steered him inside as the blond spoke.

“Yes.” He stated. He gave no additions, no catches. Only a smile.

Had it been anyone else offering, Edward would’ve never stepped over the threshold. But this was Andrew Haldane, so he shook his head and ducked into the darkness of the building.

In the privacy of his rented room, Andrew laid out the role he required filling.

(It was a much cleaner, cushier version of Edward’s lodgings. An ornate space, with a high ceiling and polished floorboards. It enjoyed a washstand and dresser and two large windows. The cast iron bed looked luxuriously comfortable.)

“I’m in dire need of protection.” He explained, squeezing his washcloth against its basin. He took the damp fabric to his neck, wiping at the sweat he found. “If it pleases – and doesn’t scare – I’d like you to be that protection.”

The looseness of his collar allowed Edward to catch another tormenting glimpse of his skin. It had tanned in the heat and had the taller’s throat bobbing eagerly. He distracted himself by folding his arms, deepening his scowl, and leaning against the closed door.

“Why me?” He demanded.

There were plenty of men who’d exchange dollars for handing out beatings. Men more qualified and trustworthy than him, too. (Though probably not any as tall.)

The blond let out a huff and glanced over his shoulder. The cloth was returned to the water and his hands were promptly rubbed clean. He scrubbed away the dirt of the city, as gentlemanly as ever.

“Because you’re tall and hit harder than a locomotive.” He said. “Does it need to be more than that?”

Yes. There were a hundred and sixteen reasons why that explanation failed to satisfy. Edward wanted to say so but feared it might set his tentative second chance ablaze. And for all his idiocy, he wasn’t stupid enough to take that risk.

He grunted instead. A snort to mark his bitter amusement at the claim.

Andrew was kind enough to try again. “You were willing to aid me before, why not again?” He said, softer this time, “You’re clearly a man of action, even if our politics don’t exactly align.”

What a friendly way of putting it. Impressive, almost, that their disagreement on such a pivotal topic would be made so trivial.

The taller of the two scratched his chin. He found stubble he never allowed beyond a few days’ growth. He’d worn a beard only once and he loathed to remember those days.

Pretending to consider the idea was exhausting. Trying to work out whether he was actually pretending was worse still.

Andrew came to his aid. “I want you by my side.” He said.

He spoke without a care in the world. He spoke like he hadn’t brought a stranger – a stranger bigger and stronger and meaner than he – into his home.

In his weakness for the words, Edward glanced up. His eyes flashed in the light and he fixed the man with a vulnerable stare. He hoped the expression was hidden behind his overhanging curls. It wasn’t; the intensity of the pain and pleasure he felt for the statement bled from every pore.

Luckily, the blond had turned away. He busied himself with tossing the basin contents out the open window before returning to pour a glass of water. He handed over the cup with no room for refusal.

Edward took it obediently. He tried to make his silence appear thoughtful rather than overwhelmed. His muttered “Thank you”, dragged up over a dry throat, went unacknowledged.

“I’d pay you well for it.” His company was explaining, making his expectations clear.

Andrew Haldane wasn’t one to ask for charity. He poured himself a drink as well, taking a swig before he spoke. A soft hum of pleasure escaped him as the water hit his tongue, punctuating his words.

“How does forty dollars a month sound?” He asked.

It was said casually enough to catch the other man off guard. Edward choked on his water, spilling some down his dirty shirt. He wiped his lips and tried to recover, though he knew it to be a lost cause.

One slip and he’d given himself away. Such was every poor man’s weakness.

Ever the compassionate type, Andrew merely sipped his water. He made no comment on the reaction nor glanced his company’s way. There was no indication that he’d even noticed the spillage, impossible as missing it would have been.

“Expenses included, of course.” He added, gaze wandering mercifully over his bed against the wall.

Kind of him to allow Edward to mop up the water dripping on his boots, giving the man a moment to compose himself. His cheeks were coloured by yesterday’s bruising and a fresh pink embarrassment. It wasn’t long before the former marine had cracked his neck, sighing as quietly as he could manage.

How could he possibly refuse. Forty dollars was forty dollars.

That should be the narrative Andrew was spinning behind his eyes. It was the narrative Edward intended to uphold; that he was an individual easily bought. Why he had been chosen specifically – if there were really any more reason to it – would remain a mystery.

Edward swallowed. The tightness in his throat tasted like seawater.

“Where you headed next?” He asked softly. He fixed his company with a hard stare and refused to look away.

A silent prayer begged the answer to be Massachusetts.

At the apparent acceptance of his proposal, Andrew’s grin widened. Those strong arms were folded across his chest. With the window’s sunlight at his back, marking a golden halo around his hair, he was truly magnificent.

His voice sounded pleased as he spoke. “Columbia.”

It was easier to trust someone because you had to.

That must have been why the bonds of combat were said to be so strong. Edward had time to dwell on the idea, during their long journey across South Carolina. His thighs were rubbed raw in that familiar riding sensation and the terrain trotted merrily on by without his appreciation.

Andrew trusted him within a month of departing Charleston.

Maybe because Edward didn’t take his pay and disappear into the night. Maybe because he seemed so uncomfortable being handed such a ridiculously large sum. Maybe because he actually did his job, demanding Andrew yell for him at even the first whiff of trouble brewing.

Maybe because Andrew actually liked him. Their conversations on the long road were amicable, filled with joyful laughter and a lack of political debate. They shared rooms when they stopped to rest and awoke to pleasant ‘good morning’s.

That couldn’t be the reason, Edward assured himself. They were strangers again and it would take more than a bar brawl to settle that.

They arrived in Columbia eventually. Their bruises from Charleston had healed, nursed pointedly by the taller’s rough hands.

By the time they left their destination, two months later, new bruises had appeared. On Edward’s skin, predominantly.

Nobody would be touching Andrew Haldane without going through him.

Andrew was straightening his tie in the dresser mirror. It had a nasty crack in the glass that distorted his reflection. Such was the quality of lodgings in Atlanta. Winter had arrived and Christmas was almost upon them.

“Should I fetch the soapbox?” Edward asked.

He was teasing despite his lack of smile, his eyes focusing on the wood he was carving in his fingers. The shape was beginning to appear, a little bird with its wings spread. There hadn’t been much excitement in Greenbrier during his dry periods, so he’d gotten fairly good at the craft.

He received a withering look from Andrew, which he ignored.

“Britain’s already outlawed slavery in its entire empire.” He recited. “All across the world, nations are dissolving the shackles of the trade, yet we continue to applaud its value. Tell me, does that seem like a clever idea to you, Mr. Jones?”

Despite the grave sincerity of the statement, the blond’s lip had curled into the slightest smile. He always did this; respond to teasing with extracts from his speeches. Speeches he knew his company loathed, having heard each version at least fifty times.

During each and every speech, whether on the street or in a lecture hall or on a table in a bar, Edward would be in the back corner. (If he had his way, the last location mentioned would be a one-time occurrence.) Watching and waiting and sipping his drink, overwhelmed with boredom. Yet alert and ready for the moment fists started to clench.

Behind Andrew now, visible in the mirror’s reflection, Edward sat against the wall. He sent an equally wilting stare instead of a reply. For a moment, he held Andrew’s gaze. The tall man ultimately said nothing and returned to his carving.

“Where we headed?” He asked.

The blond bit his lip. His hand found his neck, where he scratched the skin distractedly.

His company noticed. The carving slowed to a halt, a curl of wood poised half-free from the bird’s wing.

Turning to look over his shoulder, Andrew spoke with a smile. A warm, generous smile, untouched by political fervour or relentless justice.

“Nowhere special.” He said.

It was special. Edward felt special.

He knew himself to be exceptionally lucky as the neat suit jacket was pulled over his shoulders. By the tailor rather than Andrew, but he wouldn’t complain. Not with the blond visible in the long, uncracked mirror of the store, forcing down his grin where he watched the scene.

A white shirt and handsome coat replaced the outdated breeches and filthy farmer’s rags Edward had entered their agreement with. It wasn’t a uniform and that had his heart soaring, even if he couldn’t bear to think about the price tag of the ensemble.

Two warm hands clasped down on his shoulders, fingers feeling the material and his flushed skin beneath. They were Andrew’s this time, the man’s smile alight in the mirror. They shared a glance in the reflection, proud and joyful blue spilling into their counterpart. It was infectious, that grin, leaving one creeping over the taller man’s lips as he lifted his chin a fraction.

He couldn’t hide behind his curls forever.

“You look splendid, Mr. Jones.” The blond said.

He’d turned his eyes away from the mirror, looking to Edward’s face beside his own. Close enough to leave his breath on the taller man’s cheek, a warm flutter of air that had Edward tearing his gaze towards the floor again.

Warm fingers reached up as Andrew tucked a stray curl behind his ear. The pause he took marked a brief moment where his smile dimmed. He was expecting to be rebuked or questioned, at the very least.

Edward’s gaze shifted to his face. Out of the corner of his eye, he sent the blond a dark, longing glance. His patience for this game had fallen to nil over the last century. To force his hand in a place as public as this, tailors milling around the store, was cruel beyond belief. If he had less restraint, he’d have grabbed those fingers in his teeth.

He said nothing.

Andrew retracted his hand, pretending to brush something from the suit’s collar. His smirk had doubled in size.

When Andrew handed him that month’s forty dollars as usual, Edward handed it back.

They’d left Atlanta. Montgomery was in the distance, drawing them over the Alabama state line. They’d stopped for the night, marking their fifth month in each other’s company with a gracious amount of drinking. Their shared room was small, comfortable, and warm. It kept out the new year’s chill.

“F’ the suit.” Edward said. It definitely cost more than he was returning.

Closing his eyes in a slow blink, Andrew hummed. His lips were upturned quietly, his fingers rubbing over the rejected currency for a moment. His hand extended again, repeating the payment. Forty dollars were held out for his company to take. There was no room for refusal.

“I’m sure you can make it up to me-” The blond murmured, voice riding on his exhale and rattling his chest invitingly,“-in other ways.”

“Was your father’s name Edward?” Andrew asked.

His head bobbed with the movement of his horse and he didn’t turn away from the road. Steadily, they moved onwards through the forest, treading deeper into Alabama’s territory. It was a beautiful state in the springtime sun.

Riding beside him, close enough to reach out and touch, Edward laughed. Bitterly and loudly and echoing the harsh sound off the branches.

“No.” He drawled.

No replacement was given for the name and the blond didn’t request one. A single glance gave all the information he could ever need on the relationship between Mr. Jones senior and his son.

“My middle name’s Allison.” Andrew said, steering the conversation to calmer waters.

It was Edward’s turn to glance his company’s way. A sharp jerk of his head, revealing eyes wider than they should be. He wished he could say with certainty whether this addition to his love’s name was new.

It was something he’d never known before and never thought to ask.

“Allison.” He repeated. He chewed it over in his mouth. It was a sweet taste and he repeated it again. Quietly, just for himself. “ _Allison_ …” He whispered. It went unnoticed on the breeze.

“I’ve no doubt it was the name of some great grandfather of mine.” Andrew was continuing, unaware of the weight the information held, “Do you have a middle name, Mr. Jones?”

He received no answer. Heels dug into Edward’s horse, spurring the beast to speed up. He expertly steered his mount ahead and around, cutting his company off in the road. The blond tugged on the reigns, both horses shuffling and stamping their hooves to prevent a collision.

They sat like that for a moment; one man unable to continue, blocked from proceeding by the person paid to follow him.

“ _Edward_.” The taller man said pointedly.

He longed to provide an explanation beyond that. A pleading, pathetic description of how much he hated the formality. Of how it dug nails into his heart and stole the breath from his chest, as someone he knew so intimately treated him like a stranger.

‘Mr. Jones’ hadn’t marched to war once, twice, three times, just to put a smile across his love’s features. ‘Mr. Jones’ hadn’t braved the hellfire of cannons or the searing heat of a prison ship or the unrelenting depths of the ocean for another man’s cause. ‘Mr. Jones’ hadn’t combed his fingers through that blond hair, burying his nose in those locks and breathing deeply the scent he found.

Running a hand over his horse’s neck, soothing the animal, Andrew didn’t meet his gaze.

“I thought you might want to keep things professional.” He admitted, with the good grace to sound embarrassed about it. “I didn’t want to assume.”

“Well, I’m tellin’ you now.” His company spat.

Far from what a lowly employee on a security detail should be saying, the vitriol in his voice ripping over the empty road. The branches above them creaked in horror.

Andrew smiled. “ _Edward_.” He repeated.

Ahead of him, the man in question steered his horse back towards their destination. They matched pace once more, side by side as they continued on. The taller of the two kept his eyes on the saddle, fiddling with the reigns.

The confidence he’d felt had sparked and faded quickly. Whatever sudden anger had been brought on by the formality, it had him acting out of turn. He realised that this Andrew, like every incarnation before him, was his superior.

“Forgive me.” Edward muttered.

Beside him, a man he couldn’t look at huffed.

“Shouldn’t that be _‘forgive me, Mr. Haldane’_?” Andrew asked.

His tone was flat. The taller couldn’t tell if he was teasing.

“Forgive me, Mr. Haldane.” Edward muttered obediently.

The request left his shoulders sagging and his expression miserable. His humiliation was clear in every syllable. Until the blond laughed, church bells igniting amongst the trees. There had been no expectation that his company would comply, and the fact that he had was apparently very amusing.

“ _Andrew_.” Andrew managed around his chuckles, trying desperately to stifle them. “For God’s sake, call me Andrew.”

They didn’t discuss the incident at the tailor shop. Or their preference for spending their evenings together, holed up in their lodgings playing cards. Or the sly grins from behind glasses of alcohol, following an innuendo or twelve. Or the lustful glances, dragging over each other during another speech.

Edward hadn’t the confidence to address any of it.

He hated the dance but he knew no replacement to request. The music box had a set waltz, and he would continue to spin to its immortal direction.

They reached Montgomery in March, 1835.

Somewhere along the road, Edward had convinced Andrew to abstain from violence wherever possible. It had sparked a fierce debate that, verbally, the latter had won. His argument hinged on easily appreciated claims to favourable traits; valour, courage, honour. All of which his company ignored, continuing to repeat the same phrase over thirty times.

“If you die, this whole thing dies with you.” Edward had said.

He reminded his employer, briefly, that he himself was not an abolitionist. He hadn’t read any essays, wasn’t familiar with constitutional rights, and hadn’t met a slave that he could recall. Even if he desperately wanted to speak for the cause – which he did not – he would have no idea what he was talking about.

What he did know was that he’d hauled his ass all the way from South Carolina to Alabama now, and he would not be letting that exhaustive trip go to waste. Nor the black eyes he’d taken or the men he’d crippled on the way.

It would all be for nothing, should Andrew die.

Eventually, the blond conceded to this fact. He agreed that, unless the situation were dire, he would stand back. Straighten his back and watch silently whilst the person he paid to deal with violence dealt with said violence. Violently.

Edward hadn’t expected that agreement to be upheld.

Andrew was speaking in one of Montgomery’s few seminaries. The hall was packed, damn near overflowing. The majority of the crowd hadn’t chosen a definitive stance on the subject, or at least were politely curious. Perfect, that was better for all parties.

Their leading man, blond hair smoothed immaculately into place and suit spotlessly clean, began his sermon on the evils of slavery. His passion was incendiary; it didn’t take long to have murmurs of disinterest turning into enraptured viewership. His material was well trodden, but he managed to spark it anew with his passion for the righteous. A tough crowd meant nothing to him.

Edward watched, arms folded and leaning against the side wall. Looking, for all intents and purposes, like a regular spectator. (Or even a detractor, someone there to laugh and mock and play the Devil’s advocate. He would never.)

With a new city around him, he could admit he was beginning to sway towards Andrew’s viewpoint. Despite perceived appearances and his own opinion of himself, the former marine was anything but stupid.

He listened and he digested and he still found the politics to be none of his business. Yet, after every repeated sermon, he still found his eyes twitching at the visceral descriptions Andrew gave. The parts about the whippings, particularly, struck a chord with one man in the room.

One man who was always present, come what may.

Edward wanted no part in a rich man’s game. A beaten man’s game, however, in which people who didn’t deserve their licks took them anyway – that he understood. It had his palms sweaty, his mind racing around the idea that he might be falling into _involvement_. Beyond what he was paid to do, obviously.

Then a shout erupted from the entranceway and a glass was thrown. Back onto the job Edward went, mercifully pulled from his crisis of political loyalty. He rolled up his sleeves.

A swell of newcomers had arrived and the crowd parted for them. What more could be expected from Montgomery. The quiet listening was as polite as most were willing to behave. When a fight broke out, they’d let it run its course.

Edward would not. He tackled the ringleader as he pulled his arm back to toss another bottle.

Andrew stayed true to his word. He remained on his podium and he didn’t get involved. He watched as his protector fought against the three men who dared actually start a fight. His knuckles were white were he gripped his wooden pulpit.

Outnumbered, Edward got a couple of punches in before being overwhelmed. He struck the ringleader across the jaw and kicked over a second man. All of which counted for little after he was caught by the third assailant, arms hooked under his from behind and a fist knotted in his braid. He struggled valiantly but to no avail. Whoever it was held him in a tight grip, yanking his hair to keep his head up.

He was made to watch what became of his _involvement_.

Getting up from being tackled, the ringleader didn’t hesitate to plant a fist in Edward’s stomach. He struck upwards, hitting the mountain man under the ribs. His knuckles clashed with an old, forgotten wound.

Edward cried out. He gagged, winded by the hit. He received a punch across his face for the sound. Another swiftly followed, two men now using their fists on his already battered body. His arms remained pinned, unable to strike back and level the playing field.

He lost count of the blows he took by the time they reached ten. He didn’t recognise the disgust and anger in his assailant’s eyes, unmatched by any soldier he’d glimpsed on the battlefield.

These men _hated_ him. He could see it.

Blood in his teeth, red spittle falling in droplets across the floorboards, Edward managed to catch Andrew’s gaze. He needed it more than he needed air in his burning lungs.

He found a mix of things behind those blue eyes. He filed them away in his mind subconsciously. The names for the emotions were lost on him, distracted by another punch to the face.

Spectators broke up the fight eventually. They threw all four men involved out the door, seeing Edward as part of the problem.

Edward refused to see a doctor.

He made it clear, in his own words, that he wouldn’t die from this. ‘Three stupid cunts from Montgomery, Alabama’ would not be the death of him.

Andrew placed him on the bed regardless. Cushioned him with pillows and dragged the washbasin over. Plied his lips open with promises of whisky and refused to take the cup away until he drank. A damp cloth soothed his bruises, nursed his cuts, and swept the sweat from his brow.

Edward whimpered when those kind hands started unbuttoning his shirt. The pain was one reason. The fear of what would be found was another.

Andrew shushed him. He ran gentle fingers through his hair, long curls having fallen loose from his ponytail. Unable to resist, the taller man could only close his eyes and breathe deeply. His shirt and pants were carefully removed, each motion sending agony ripping over his muscles.

He was left reclining against the pillows again, supporting his back and his shame, every mottled scar on display. This time there was no promise of sex to nullify how miserable he felt.

Andrew ignored what he saw. His gaze ran over the old wounds once and then returned to the wash bowl as if he hadn’t seen them. He dipped the cloth in the pink water, squeezing it out to begin his nursing again.

The silence was worse, somehow. It gave Edward time to think and he hated that.

When he’d caught the blond’s eye in that hall, he’d found a well of feelings he unfortunately recognised. He knew concern and fear for a man’s safety all too well. Andrew had been worried about him, hurt by the wounds he had to watch being beaten into his protector.

There’d been something else there, however briefly.

It was pride. Before the punching really got underway, Andrew had been excited to see Edward defend him so eagerly. The spark had faded rapidly into pain, but it had been there.

(Too bad for Edward, he wouldn’t recognise love in a man’s features, even if he’d seen it in those hitting him. Inches from his nose and he’d never know it was there.)

He hissed as the rough cloth rubbed his cheek. He pulled away but a firm hand grabbed his jaw. Andrew’s grip was merciless, angry at the incident and taking it out on his patient. He drew his company’s head back to where he could continue dabbing it.

“This won’t happen again.” The blond decreed. Coldly and firmly and with the absolution of the good Lord himself.

This would not be happening again.

After an agonising hour or so, Andrew was finished with him.

He’d rubbed ointment on his bruises and wiped away the blood. He’d stitched up the cuts he could find and forcefully pressed more whisky to the man’s lips.

Edward was left half-lying on the bed, relegated to just his underwear and stockings. They were the only items without anything staining them. He waited in silence, staring towards the window, for Andrew to return to him.

Or to leave, which would be fitting. Who wanted to spend time beside a pathetically beaten man.

The blond did return, perching on the mattress. He rested his back against the headboard and sat next to his patient. In his fingers, he held a comb. Without any request for permission, he carefully drew Edward’s long hair from whatever was left of his braid. The comb’s teeth were pulled slowly through the curls, never allowed to snag as his hair was gently brushed.

A sensation that felt so damn good it almost pushed one of them to tears.

“I’m sorry.” The taller man muttered. He sniffed and hoped it was quiet.

“For what?” Andrew snapped.

Any explanation died on Edward’s tongue. He shut his mouth and bit his split lip. It stung.

Beside him, his company sighed. He placed the comb down in the taller man’s lap for a moment and inside threaded an arm around his shoulders. The grip squeezed gently.

“Don’t ever apologise to me.” Andrew said. His rage had evaporated, replaced by a desperation unnamed.

A tone pleading to be understood without the words to express itself. Those warm fingers reached out where words could not, cupping Edward’s jaw in a careful grip. The taller leant into the touch, the heat on his cheek painful and worth every ache it caused. He sighed happily, any thought of concealing his joy lost to a pounding headache.

His face was turned back towards Andrew. He found an angry, hurting, love-filled gaze staring back at him. Barely an inch away, blurred by the agony in Edward’s muscles and the whisky on his tongue and the tears in his eyes.

Everything hurt. He hated that this was what brought their dance to a climax.

“Kiss me.” He begged. He didn’t care anymore. His voice was hoarse, a croaked whisper.

Andrew heard. A pained huff escaped him, an almost-laugh at the situation. The same feeling his company had, appalled that it had to reach this point.

Knowing it would hurt, he pressed their lips together regardless. The fist that grabbed his shirt, tugging him closer, let the blond know the pain was manageable. Edward’s chest hitched and his face jerked against the kiss, choking back a sob.

Andrew assumed it was from the pain of the fight. He didn’t know any better.

He pulled back, returning to shushing his company and soothingly stroking his hair. He laid chaste kisses over the tall man’s forehead, any inch of skin he could find without a bruise upon it.

That fist in his shirt wouldn’t let go.

There wasn’t much public speaking to be done in Montgomery after that. Andrew couldn’t hide his disgust at the entire city and only wanted to stay in their lodgings, tending to his wounded comrade.

Once Edward was fit to ride, they moved on to Mobile.

Besides tender kisses, they hadn’t enjoyed any other intimate relations.

Edward was determined to change that. Andrew was reluctant.

Not because he was some kind of prude or wasn’t equally eager; he shied away from the bruises still littering his company’s skin. His hands would roam excitedly over his protector’s shoulders when they kissed, running lustful fingers against his neck and fisting tight grips in his shirt.

Then he’d remember the hurt beneath or feel a hiss of pain and the touching would slow, sometimes stop entirely.

When they reached Mobile, several weeks beyond the incident, Edward had had enough. He wasn’t some delicate flower. And he was itching to throw off a twenty-year dry spell.

The blond insisted on carrying the few bags they brought with them up to the room. This was allowed, if only to spare them both the stupidity of the argument. He inspected the room upon entry, with his hands on his hips and his jacket slung onto one of the beds. He seemed pleased, turning towards the entrance to say so.

He was confronted by the snapping of the key in the lock and a man hastily tearing off his shirt. In an instant, Andrew had crossed the room, brow furrowed as he tenderly grabbed Edward’s wrists.

“Slow down.” He gasped, terrified of the injury the display might cause.

He received a judgemental stare in return.

“Andrew, if I can ride a damn horse then I can sure as Hell ride _you_.” The taller man spat.

It certainly wiped the concern from the blond’s features, leaving his eyes wide and his lips tightly pressed. A shocked expression, heavy with excitement he’d been stashing away for a later date.

That date had apparently arrived. Gingerly, he began helping Edward remove the rest of his garments. The taller’s back knocked quietly against the door as he was pressed up against it. Warm fingers loosened the buttons of his shirt, pulling it free and letting it fall to the floor, then beginning to do the same for his pants. All the while exchanging fleeting kisses, each one growing more heated.

Eventually, Andrew pulled away again. His concern returned despite the heavy rise and fall of his chest. Panting slightly, overexerted by his arousal.

“I won’t let you strain yourself.” He said. It was a command.

Calloused hands took his face, running warm palms over his jaw and thumbs over his cheeks. He found Edward gazing at him lovingly, fond frustration wrapped around a crooked smile. With his shirt discarded against the floorboards, all his scars were back on display. Illuminated in the daylight, from the shackle marks at his wrists to the lashing over his shoulders.

“Think y’ know now that I’ve endured worse than a beatin’.” He said carefully, hesitant to start a debate.

He received a face buried in his neck, air drawing over sensitive skin where Andrew inhaled deeply. Enjoying the scent of sweat and a familiar body, leaving a chaste kiss as a thank you before he spoke.

“Is that where you learned you liked to…?” He didn’t finish the thought.

Politeness unneeded held the question at bay. They both knew what he was referring to, one hand holding Edward’s wrist, rubbing over the scarred skin there. The other was running up the man’s spine, over the raised lines of the whip. The touch retreated, only to be brought back to the musket wound at his hip, the blond’s palm laid flat over the scar.

Andrew was smart enough to figure out what left such marks on a man. Prison for the wrists, military for the hip. Probably both for the whipping, either or. Professions that inflicted worse pain than three slavers at a public speaking.

That unfinished question still hung in the air.

“Liked t’ fuck men?” Edward helpfully supplied.

His crooked smile was sympathetic. It wasn’t palatable information to request. His company nodded in response.

After a second’s thought – frowning as he considered if he actually _had_ an answer for the exact time he figured it out – the taller of the two shook his head.

“No, it weren’t.” He admitted.

The truth felt satisfying when he offered it to Andrew. This must be what confessional tasted like. His priestly stand-in hummed, nodding once more as he digested the response.

Silently, the blond leaned in to kiss him again. His whisper tickled the lips so close to his.

“I never thought I’d find a man like me out here.” He confessed. The words weighed a ton, washed over the room by a tide of relief. “I’m so happy I met you, Edward.”

The replying gasp, the hitch in Edward’s chest that stuttered his inhale, was painful for all to hear. It reeked of a deep sting, unrelated to lashings or fist fights. His blink was slow, leaving his eyes shut as his hands tangled themselves in the blond locks he loved so dearly.

He pulled Andrew’s face closer, intending to kiss away any further discussion.

As much as he loved to hear the man speak, Edward didn’t think he could handle anymore confessions like that.

Edward’s wounds healed eventually.

He’d like to think they did so faster than on the men who’d hit him. He was probably wrong about that. A little extra bed rest did the trick and gave him time to finish the wooden bird he’d been carving. It currently sat on the bedside table, positioned between their two single beds.

One disturbed, one pristine.

Soon enough, he was back to his old self. And Andrew was back to his preaching.

New arguments were being scribbled away beneath his pencil, no doubt, his elbows on the room’s writing desk as he scowled at the paper. His handwriting remained as terrible as it had been in the eighteenth century. Old habits lived on.

Edward watched him from the open window, perched on the sill. He was biting pleasantly down on a peach, the summer heat having brought them out in season. They were sweet as molasses and the complete opposite of Alabama.

Tossing his writing instrument aside, apparently frustrated by his essay skills, Andrew sat back in his chair. The wood squeaked and he drummed his fingers on the desk. His thoughts drifted on an endless sea his company could never hope to navigate, shortly before his mental jolly boat was yanked back to reality.

The blond hummed softly. “Can you read?” He asked, leaning his arm on the chair’s backrest.

The movement had him glancing towards the window, sunlight flashing in his blue eyes. The locks of hair falling over his forehead, tussled from their earlier activities, glowed like polished brass. It was lucky he was so handsome, otherwise Edward might be upset by the question.

“Yes.” He replied sourly.

Somehow the implication irked him. He knew it wasn’t malicious, a genuine question and nothing more. Even in the blond’s deep voice, it grated.

Andrew the Fourth had taught him to read. The tall man felt protective over that fact, defensive against the slightest idea that his teacher had failed his job.

The answer satisfied and the blond didn’t press. He turned back to his desk and shuffled his papers, pulling out one from the bottom of the pile. It was written in ink, not pencil.

“Can you write?” He asked after a brief pause.

A quiet sigh escaped Edward’s nose. He averted his eyes and shook his head. “No.” He admitted.

They hadn’t gotten around to that before the war. His learning had been cruelly cut short despite his devotion to his tutor.

Andrew’s smile never wavered. His fingers were spread wide where they pressed against that particular sheet, sliding it over the wood towards the window. He tapped it once and turned his gaze back towards the sunlight.

“Can you write your name?” He asked.

Glancing between the mystery paper and his love, Edward nodded.

“Good.” The blond said softly. His company glimpsed a fresh adoration in his eyes, crinkled where he smiled. “I need you to sign this for me.”

Wiping the peach juice on his shirt and tossing the pit out the window, the tall man approached the paper. He took it delicately between his fingers and held it up to read. A lengthy legal document stared back, forcing him to squint. Half the words he couldn’t read, leaving him to wonder why he’d bothered trying. Or why he’d claimed so proudly that he could, seemingly unable to comprehend written English.

Few documents used such language and required signing. He knew what ‘benefactor’ meant.

“This is a will.” He deduced.

Andrew nodded. “My will.” He confirmed.

Edward sent him a fierce, angry glance. The scales had fallen and he didn’t like the clatter they made.

The blond leant casually in his chair and smiled on. Easily, dismissively even, as if nothing was amiss. To him, nothing was.

“Andrew, I can’t-” The taller man tried.

A raised hand silenced him instantly. It saved them both the trouble of the argument. They’d gotten good at avoiding debate in this lifetime, hadn’t they.

“It’s not as if I have a wife or children to bequeath anything to.” Andrew sighed, picking up his pencil again. “Throw my body in a potter’s field for all I care. So long as the cause lives on.”

Edward was pretty sure that was a line from one of his speeches. It had him gripping the paper hard enough to tear.

But it would be hypocritical to pretend he hadn’t lived off this man’s generosity before. No wife, no children, no parents, no siblings. Such was the pattern of Andrew Haldane’s life by the time he fatefully crossed paths with his immortal companion.

The document was laid carefully to rest against the desk. Edward reluctantly held out his hand.

Between his fingers, Andrew placed his pen. The nib was freshly dipped and left dark letters across the will.

 _‘Edward Jones’_ was carefully scrawled across the page, reflected in two pairs of blue eyes.

Beside it, in a different hand and already dry, read ‘ _Andrew Allison Haldane_ ’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The Dandy Horse was the predecessor to the bicycle and Eddie is rightly very unimpressed by it.  
> \- $40 in 1834 is over $1200 today.  
> \- Britain outlawed slavery by vote in 1833.


	7. Chapter 7

1835 and Andrew’s country was already collapsing.

Edward loathed to see it. He also didn’t have the strength to deny it.

Between being refused boarding rooms on account of their ‘beliefs’ and having to spend the night under a sodden tarp in the woods, he had to miserably admit that this was not the union his second captain had hoped to create. Patriotism was no longer an easily defined word and, without an enemy as recognisable as the British or French, they’d turned on each other instead.

What a terrible shame. It had only been sixty odd years. Or, as Edward might call it, a short break.

Like Bladensburg behind him, he felt the whiff of blood upon the risers.

It smelt different this time, marred by distance but stronger than any gun smoke. It was creeping over the hillsides and hovering in the corner of his eye.

It was crawling closer so slowly, he thought Andrew might die of old age before he saw it.

Maybe Edward was imagining it all, and no battlefield would ever come.

Practicing the art of reading was a tiresome process but it was a worthwhile pursuit.

Unfortunately, Andrew’s offered reading material wasn’t exactly stimulating. If he hadn’t written it himself, his comrades in Massachusetts had. All of it dry, filled with the same arguments of his speeches. Boring and causing significant eyestrain from the tiny print.

It had Edward rubbing his temple and sighing forlornly. Between his fingers, he held a pamphlet to match the piles on the room’s desk. Soon to be distributed around New Orleans. It was quite the scene, him having no shirt on and suspenders dangling from his waist. His pants were undone and he made no move to correct the fact.

Surrounded by political writings of a dangerous variety, with half his clothes missing and curls tussled, it certainly made an interesting picture. This was exactly what many southerners believed the abolitionist movement to be made of; queers in their stockings printing lunacy from their bedrooms. Hilariously accurate.

“Not to your tastes?” Andrew teased.

He gestured to the pamphlet with that little wooden bird. He’d grown quite fond of it, claimed it to be good luck in fact. It had been in his pocket when he’d dodged a gunshot in Mobile and he took it with him everywhere since. (To both their knowledge, the culprit of the attack had never been charged. That was fine, Edward tracked him to a bar the day of their departure. He left his own justice in the alleyway behind said bar, spelled out in scattered teeth.)

The blond hadn’t risen from the bed, modesty covered by the sheets sticking to his stomach. Summer had passed overhead but Alabama remained stubbornly hot. He apparently had no intention of getting up today and had been mulling over how to coax his lover back against the mattress.

Edward chose not to rise to the question. He held the pamphlet up to emphasise his point.

“Y’know, in Georgia, they’ll hang you f’ this.” He said.

He wasn’t wrong. ‘Publication of material with the intention of provoking a slave rebellion’ carried the death penalty as of last month. Which these impassioned papers could, theoretically, be said to do.

Andrew was an unphased as ever. He chuckled darkly.

“Good thing we’re not in Georgia, then.” He said.

The point didn’t soar over his head; he merrily slid under it.

He reached out and placed that wooden bird on the bedside table. His thumb ran over its beak briefly, before he motioned for Edward to come hither. He found the gesture dutifully obeyed.

The taller man returned the pamphlet to the pile. It was forgotten as the mattress dipped under his knee, positioning himself in Andrew’s lap so he could kiss him.

Edward laid on his front, with his head comfortable on some cotton pillow. Against his back, Andrew’s chest hair tickled his skin, the blond laying over him protectively. Gentle fingers ran across the raised lines of his lashing and tender kisses fluttered against his nape.

“Was it prison-” The blond asked quietly, “-or the army?”

Ah, his curiosity never wavered. He simply held his tongue as long as he could stand it.

“It was a long time ago.” Edward answered.

His smile warmed the pillow where he rested his cheek against it. Sticky, sweat slicked skin pressed to the fabric. They’d exhausted themselves making beautiful, heated memories in New Orleans.

Those fingers continued to move up and down the legacy of the whip. Their owner didn’t push the conversation and the chaste kisses didn’t stop.

“I spent time in prison.” Edward admitted, loathed to keep secrets from this man, “An’ the army. And the marines.”

He felt the exhale of surprise against his nape. His grin grew. He twisted his arm awkwardly, reaching to tap his lower back and indicate the long, mottled scars.

“But that?” He says, “That was f’ helpin’ someone dear t’ me.”

He always had Andrew walk ahead of him.

Partly because that was their dynamic, leader and follower to the last. Mostly because it allowed a better position for catching approaching threats. It suited Edward perfectly, chewing his tobacco as he kept step with his love.

He could admire the sunshine on those bond locks from here, without the heinous temptation to reach out and touch. Some things were as unacceptable in public as they’d ever been. (Never did Edward wonder if that would change. Never did he imagine he might be able to take his love by the waist someday, spin him in the street and kiss him, where everyone could see. Hoping for the impossible was a fool’s errand.)

Andrew meandered his way along New Orleans’ streets, until he found the alley that would shortcut them back to their lodgings. It had been a long day of distributing pamphlets and shaking hands with comrades. They were both tired. (Or bored, in one of their cases.)

His follower strolled lazily after him, though not before taking a look around. A quiet city stared back. Nothing of interest or danger. Dusty roads and the smell of the sea.

Edward turned the corner. He came face to back with two men he didn’t recognise. Shirts of the finest cotton and clean waistcoats could be seen, though their sleeves were rolled back to the elbow. Both were shorter than him. Both were between him and Andrew.

How unfortunate for them.

They were busy addressing their target, the blond man ahead of their enraged words.

“We thought you were the one handin’ out these-!” The rest of the accusation was lost as a long, dark shadow was cast over their number.

Their attention was brought towards Edward, standing menacingly at the alley’s mouth. The pamphlet between one man’s fingers crumpled in a fearful grip.

The bodyguard had to wonder if they recognised the seething in his eyes, if that was what truly scared them. A cold anger they probably didn’t deserve, shadowed by the slightest bow of his head. It was an old hatred, directed at a variety of foes over this last century. Pastors, commanders, Canadians, Frenchmen, sailors, Brits, jailors.

It was reserved for those he’d call ‘a threat to the cause’.

 _His_ cause, not Andrew’s. The selfish pursuit of keeping a single man alive and in his orbit for as long as possible, God willing.

Fear retreating, the first stranger remembered the reason he’d entered that side street. Him and his company turned fully, lips curled and righteous anger burning behind their eyes.

Everybody had a _cause_ these days. All of them righteous in the minds of their holders.

“You an abolitionist too, boy?” One demanded.

Edward straightened up, surprised. His scowl deepened.

It would be a lie to say he knew how to respond. Instinct said no.

There was an assumption there, hanging on the words as spit would to a man’s boot. That his rough features must be of southern sensibilities, or at least respect the authority of a well-to-do stranger.

They thought it possible he might be an ally. He wasn’t sure he liked that assumption.

Uncomfortable silence reigned while the bodyguard chewed over his answer and tobacco.

“I ain’t no _boy_ , that’s f’ sure.” He replied.

At almost a hundred and fifty years old, he reckoned that was a fair response.

Behind the two men, Andrew was forcing his smile from erupting. He ran his finger back and forth over his top lip, averting his eyes to regain his composure. His angered surprise had quickly turned to amusement. (His lover had that effect on him.)

“Gentlemen, might I introduce Eddie Jones.” He explained, outstretching his hand to indicate the person in question. “My bodyguard and former guest of the Charleston County Jail.”

Reading the ruse, Edward spat his tobacco at their feet. He watched the men flinch and continued, folding his arms across his chest and cracking his neck. Never had his menacing stature been quite so helpful.

After a brief look at his counterpart, one of the men ducked his head and scurried away. The illusion of morale broke, leaving his friend alone and outnumbered. His face contorted into disgust and betrayal.

“Coward-!” He hissed quietly, watching his backup disappear around the corner. His feet shifted in the dirt and his stance widened.

Bored of this charade, Edward cleared his throat. He undid his shirt cuff and began rolling up his sleeve.

“Y’ wanna get started, or-?” He asked casually, interrupted by the fluttering of paper.

The pamphlet was flung at his chest as the stranger passed, bumping his shoulder weakly as he went. The jostle was ignored, and the taller man watched his assailant stomp away. The side street was left in silence, fading once more into the calm of the city.

Quietly, Edward rolled his sleeve back down. He fixed his jacket and approached Andrew.

“You alright?” He asked, dipping his head to catch the blond’s eye.

He found gratitude and adoration in those stern blue eyes. Andrew was smiling as he patted his lover’s arm, hand moving to the small of his back afterwards. He steered them towards the opposite end of the street. In the shadow of the alley, they could stand close together for a moment and enjoy the touch.

“Yes.” The blond replied. “I’m fine.”

The sunlight forced them apart as they continued on their route home, stepping out into a main road. They walked side by side regardless.

“I’m never afraid when I know you’re near.” Andrew admitted.

He could only catch Edward’s eye briefly, before the taller man looked away in embarrassment. His cheeks were peachy pink in the sunshine, his lips pressed tightly together. Praise like that would drive him mad it felt so good to hear.

He blinked, another thought breaking him from his blushing display. He frowned.

“ _Eddie?_ ” He questioned, turning back to his company.

Andrew stared back blankly before recollection ignited in his mind. He huffed out a laugh and patted his lover’s shoulder.

“Oh, yes!” He said, “I thought it sounded more intimidating!”

An already arched eyebrow rose slightly higher. Rather than a rebuttal or question, Edward merely grunted. His crooked smile flashed in the sunlight. He’d turned away before he noticed how tender and affectionate Andrew’s gaze was. One of them loved that lopsided grin.

“Eddie.” The taller man repeated, feeling his own name move over his tongue. “Eddie Jones.”

From beside him, blond hair bumped fleetingly against his collar. The risk was great but the gesture worth it. A brief contact, stopping short of Andrew resting his head in the crook of his love’s neck. He brushed his temple against his company for comfort, then continued walking like it was an accident.

“Do you like it?” He asked softly, just for them to hear.

His glance upwards found his bodyguard nodding.

“Yes,” Eddie said. He still wore that crooked smile. “If you’re the one t’ call me by it.”

“Have you heard what’s come out of Connecticut?” Andrew asked.

He fiddled with that carved bird as he spoke. The wood was polished in areas where his fingers had repeatedly run over its feathers.

“Can’t say I have.” Eddie replied.

Glancing upwards, he found his love’s eyes fixed to the little creature in his palm. He was smiling, amused by whatever spurred him to ask.

“A man claims to have created a pistol that can fire six times without reloading.” He explained. “A revolving cylinder without a flintlock.”

He chuckled and placed the bird atop his desk. He was already pulling off his shirt as he approached the bed.

“A fascinating idea.” The blond was muttering, distracted by the man reclining against the mattress.

His words faded, interested only in pulling Eddie’s collar away from his throat. Open mouthed kisses were laid against the sensitive skin where Andrew knelt over his lover. He hummed against the man’s neck, chuckling as he continued his machinations.

“What an incredible inventor.” He mused. “I’m interested to hear what he’ll think of next.”

He went back to kissing his lover’s throat. When strong fingers buried themselves in his hair, the blond thought nothing of it, beyond encouragement to continue. His fingers began untucking his bodyguard’s shirt and running his hands over strong, scarred sides.

He couldn’t see how Eddie’s eyes fixed upon the wall, preoccupied by their fleeting conversation.

A pistol that fired six times without reloading. Fascinating idea.

Fascinating ideas shouldn’t leave a man’s chest so heavy.

In late 1936, a man named Isaac Calhoun challenged Andrew Haldane to a duel.

They’d returned to Atlanta. Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama would suffer the terror of this abolitionist no more. At least, not until their enemy returned with new ammunition. Pamphlets had to be printed up north, where the presses were welcoming.

Apparently, Andrew’s ideas were offensive. Or rather, his improvised and direct naming of the Calhoun plantation in his speeches was.

Eddie agreed to be his second. Of course, he did. _Of course_. This was always how it would end, he knew that. Had known so the moment they’d met in this lifetime.

He kept his frown cold. He kept his chin up. He kept his mouth _shut_.

He accepted the restrained excitement burning behind the blond’s eyes. He stood back as the challenge was accepted. He spoke to Calhoun’s second in a flat tone and assured him that, naturally, Andrew would never retract his remarks. He arranged the location, the time, the details of the bloodshed to occur.

He watched his love take his first stride down towards his grave. Eddie held his hand and helped him down the steps.

He laid awake that night, waiting for sunrise.

Staring up at the hostile ceiling, in a city he hated, filled with people he hated, bleeding for a cause he hated. This was what he’d brought upon himself, upon Andrew by his mere presence.

His tears were muffled by the fingers pressed painfully against his lips, his other hand tangled in the hair of the man asleep against his chest. Never to be disturbed. None the wiser to the furious crease of his protector’s brow, his eyes enraged, his cheeks wet.

Eddie knew what was coming. He could see it and he would have to watch Andrew hit the ground, hard enough to shatter.

His lip bled where he bit it. He slept with the taste of copper on his tongue.

On some shithole riverbank in Georgia, Edward Jones tried one last time to dissuade a duel from occurring.

He failed. He was a poor choice of a second; he did exactly as his lover told him to.

He returned to the blond once that final meeting had concluded, finding him inspecting the duelling pistol he’d been lent. It was ornate, ivory handles and silver motifs spun around the barrel. Both of them despised it, though their reasons differed.

Andrew glanced up as he approached. He didn’t need to vocalise his question; Eddie shook his head.

No dice. The duel was going ahead.

In that confidence he’d always radiated, the blond smiled. Arrogance was the right word but it could never reach him. He was certain of himself because he deserved to be so. He patted his second’s shoulder and gestured with the pistol.

As Andrew made his way towards the offended party, he leant to mutter in his company’s ear.

“I love you.” He whispered.

The warmth of his breath vanished and he moved to meet his opponent at the centre of this charade. Every step beat the air from Eddie’s lungs, shoved a hand in his gut and twisted like he deserved.

“I love you too.” He muttered. The recipient couldn’t hear him.

He watched the two men briefly exchange words. They stood back-to-back. They adjusted their pistols but did not pull back the hammers. The doctor that accompanied the group turned away. The call to walk was made.

Apparently, the British wrote the Code of Honour used to dictate such affairs. The exact discipline had probably been refined – or desecrated – by the time it reached Georgia.

Good thing they were in Georgia, where this was legal. Where this was acceptable. Where this was commonplace.

A good thing.

When Andrew’s heel dug into the sand, marking his tenth pace, Eddie closed his eyes. Only for a second, the briefest weakness where he considered keeping them shut. The clicking of the hammer prevented it; he opened his eyes. He had to watch.

Without a uniform, his love didn’t suit the pistol in his hand. It was raised carefully and determinedly. There was no tremor in his grip. Righteousness was alight behind his blue eyes, reflecting the murky river water and the face of his opponent in the distance.

Andrew hadn’t worn his Sunday best. He’d claimed it wasn’t necessary and his challenger did not deserve to see it.

The shots echoed across the shoreline.

In late 1836, Andrew Haldane shot and killed Isaac Calhoun in a duel on the shore of the Chattahoochee river.

The shot struck the man in the jaw, and he was rushed from the scene by his second and the doctor present. He succumbed before he could reach Atlanta.

Edward Jones approached his killer cautiously.

Andrew’s eyes were extinguished. They were murky, dull, watching the spot where blood had exploded from his enemy’s face. There was crimson draining into the mud and onwards, into the swell of the river.

He was silent. His features were grim.

Without a word, his second took the ornate pistol from his hand. He tossed it to the dirt without ceremony.

“Is this how it feels?” Andrew asked.

What he meant was lost to the breeze. To take a man’s life, to fire a pistol and have it meet its target. To defend your honour, your cause, your beliefs to the death. To watch someone die for something so completely strange to yourself.

Whichever it was, Eddie hadn’t the answer.

None of those had ever been a problem for him. But then, he was a cursed man. A tall, lonely, violent man. A Godless, causeless, worthless man. Old and wise and loving.

He inhaled deeply and fisted his grip in Andrew’s shirt sleeve. He buried his face in the fabric of his shoulder and wept quietly, chest hitching as he released the reaction he’d felt sure would be required.

How many coincidences did it take to make a fact?

It had been as certain as fact to him that his love would die on that riverbank. That this was it, the Lord’s irony desperate to be brought to life.

He got to feel the warmth beneath his shirt instead. He received two strong arms around his shoulders and let his ugly tears wet the man’s collar. Andrew held him and quelled his shaking, pulling him close and kissing his curls.

They held each other until the crying stopped, until Edward’s tremors became that of cold rather than pain.

They left Atlanta in a hurry. Better not to stick around when the city was crying bloody murder.

“Words aren’t enough.” Andrew said on their way back to Columbia. “This has to be done with violence.”

They rode side by side. The beautiful hillsides of Georgia passed them by; the peaches were in season again. When he turned to Eddie, his eyes were bright. Alive and alight and shimmering blue.

“But, as God is my witness,” Andrew said, though he kept his gaze on his love as he spoke, “Let them remember that I _tried_.”

They camped by a creek before they reached Columbia. It was there Eddie asked Andrew to cut his hair.

He wasn’t sure why. There was something about watching the water bubble beneath his fingers, river cold in the wintertime. He’d built them a comfortable shelter from canvas and snapped branches. They’d enjoy fresh fish over a fire and then share blissful warmth under the stars.

It was perfect. It wasn’t for another Andrew to preside over.

Despite his first impression, this current incarnation had resurrected the same beautiful joy of their relationship. In such a short time, too. He should be rewarded but Eddie had nothing left to give. He always offered everything so easily to this man.

He’d worn his braid too long. That was from his last lifetime, maybe the one before that. He enjoyed feeling the blond run his fingers through it, one final time.

“Are you sure?” He heard muttered against his ear.

The bodyguard hummed. He watched the winter sun sparkle over the creek as it set. He adjusted himself on the rock he sat upon and got comfortable.

“Yes.” He replied.

Andrew used scissors from his bag. He was so gentle. That ponytail fell away, freeing a century old feature to the rocky ground.

They threw the pile of hair into the water and laughed as they splashed each other. The curly hair floated on the surface, little boats spinning in the breeze.

Eddie vowed to keep it short from then on.

Their first night in Columbia saw their exhaustion pressed into the mattress. They chuckled and kissed and were left breathless by lazy lovemaking. They stared into each other’s eyes when they were finished, side by side where they shared a pillow.

Andrew ran his fingers through his lover’s short hair. He smiled tiredly.

“I like it.” He admitted. He paused and his smile grew. “Massachusetts will like it.”

Surprise alighted behind Eddie’s eyes. He doused it quickly, realising his mistake. The assumption that, once the blond’s trip was finished, he’d no longer be needed had nestled snugly in his chest. The job would be finished; his love could pursue brighter horizons.

Andrew caught it. His eyes narrowed with fond irritation.

“I hope you don’t think-” He said carefully, “-that I’d return home without you.”

The guilty look his bodyguard sent towards the pillow gave the answer. Whatever excuse Eddie thought to give, it was silenced by a firm grip on his chin. Features tilted upwards, bringing his gaze back towards his love’s.

“Come with me.” The blond insisted.

He needn’t specify where. Implicated or otherwise, Eddie would follow. There were states he’d sworn he’d never return to, but those were trivial oaths. Made to himself when he was by himself.

This man could lead him into Hell by the hand and receive no complaints.

With a chuckle he hoped wasn’t too watery, the bodyguard nodded.

“Of course.” He said.

Eddie always walked behind him. Confident he could see threats coming, assured he was stronger than them all. The tall, menacing, mountain of a man.

“Snow’s comin’.” He called around the tobacco in his mouth.

“I hope so.” Andrew said over his shoulder, shivering in his coat. “I enjoy it immensely.”

It wasn’t a lie but that didn’t stop him breathing on his hands, rubbing them together against the chill. He loved the snow but was clearly an advocate of avoiding it tonight.

With a glance behind him, he turned the corner and slipped down a side street. Trailing after him, his bodyguard paused to spit his tobacco into the road. It was a cold evening, and the city was quiet. They needed the shortcut, their tremors growing violent in the dropping temperature.

Snow was coming.

He glanced up at the grey sky, hoping to see it fall as he turned into that alleyway. He was greeted by a strangled cry; a dignified, muted sound of pain. His long shadow fell over the scene, Eddie frozen in place for all but a second.

“Andrew?” He asked stupidly.

He saw the back of that blond hair and two figures struggling against each other. He saw the repeated punching motions and heard every choking whimper. He saw Andrew’s white knuckles where he clung to his attacker and the enraged eyes of his assailant. He saw that glimmer only metal could possess.

“Andrew!” The bodyguard cried. It echoed off the brickwork.

It shattered the silence, ripping apart the picture painted in the darkness of that alleyway. A dirty place, not befitting one man at its mercy. Sharp metal clattered to the ground as the blade was abandoned, the stranger among them taking off, ripping himself from his victim’s hold. His footfalls echoed off the walls as Eddie sprinted to take up his mantle, clutching Andrew in his arms.

He would not wait for him to hit the ground.

The blond’s knees shook. His legs couldn’t support him, yet he pushed his company away regardless. A hard shove as he staggered to one side.

“I’m fine.” He coughed. “I’m fine!”

Was it disloyal to call him a liar?

There was a gurgle to his words and he clutched at his collar. Trails of red bubbled out from between his fingers. His back hit the brick wall with a thump and he cried out, squeezing his eyes shut in pain.

Eddie watched, a dog told to wait, hands still upheld to help. They shook and it wasn’t from the cold.

Illuminated by the dying sun, he watched Andrew’s white shirt grow dark as he bled. The wounds to his collar and chest were numerous, a gruesome portrait of hatred, dripping against the cobblestones. His boot slipped and he slid slowly, exhaustedly, down towards the floor.

He sat in the dirt. It didn’t suit him.

When Eddie knelt and pressed his palms to the man’s collar, stemming the bleeding with useless determination, he tried to speak. Against his gritted teeth, he desperately fought to bring up some comfort. Some promises of survival, of salvation, of revenge if nothing else.

He knew better. He tried anyway.

“We gotta get you t’ a hospital-!” He stammered out.

He leant down and forced a hand around the man’s back, trying to scoop him up. Lord knows he had the strength. The loud, agonised yell he received – followed by a brief “Stop, _stop_ - _!_ ” as Andrew begged through the pain – stilled his hand instantly.

Biting back an enraged sob, the bodyguard withdrew. His grip retreated and he returned his hands to staunching the wounds.

“You gotta-” He had to swallow back his honesty, drag a lie back up in its place, “Please, Andrew, you gotta get up now-”

Two fingers pressed against his lips. Fingers growing cold and trembling.

Andrew shook his head. When he coughed, blood splashed over his chin. His head was hung against his chest, too heavy to hold up.

“I’m fine.” He lied. He looked so brave.

He gripped his love’s arm weakly. Those fingers on Eddie’s lips moved to his cheek. They clumsily wiped at the tears flowing over his skin.

They left crimson streaks in their wake.

The blond smiled. Blood in his teeth and a pale hue taking his skin. He must be freezing.

For all he wanted to, his lover didn’t smile back. His bodyguard choked out a sob, heaved in a steadying breath, and pressed their foreheads together. This wasn’t supposed to be the end, though the curtain was already drawing closed. They’d only had two years together. Eddie wrapped his arms around his love as best he could, shielding him from the winter air. If he kept him warm, he’d be alright.

The lies he told himself were large indeed.

Against his ear, an ugly gurgling sound echoed. It was followed by a rasping inhale.

“You’re warm…” Andrew muttered. He chuckled in three, tiny coughs.

He was running out of air. He was running out of time.

“Don’t fuck around-!” Eddie snarled, anger biting through the chill.

His fingers were slipping against the wounds, slick against the wet fabric and skin; he couldn’t stem the tide. Beneath his hands, he could feel that broad chest fluttering, giving in to exhaustion. A cold, sweaty temple leant against his ear.

“Never.” Andrew replied. Reassuring to the last.

He had no more words for his failed bodyguard. The light behind his eyes had dimmed, even as strong hands pressed harder to his wounds.

From the sky above, the first snow began to fall. It left pretty white flakes on Eddie’s dark curls.

Andrew didn’t get to see it.

Ruin met them in that city, having ushered them into its streets with offerings of warm beds and the chance of reaching somewhere better.

There were some in South Carolina who celebrated the untimely death of abolitionist Andrew Allison Haldane. If they didn’t toast drinks, they merely shook their heads. Terrible shame, they’d agree. But what did he expect, leaving the safety of Massachusetts.

He asked for this.

Eddie sat in the sheriff’s office for some time. Waiting and staring, quiet as the grave.

He’d done everything he could. Overpaid a doctor for helping with the body, dragged a casket from a carpenter’s workshop, made every arrangement to return Andrew to his home state. Pulled out document after document and handed over dollar after dollar. All with blood on his suit and dirt in his hair and streaks on his cheeks.

He’d held his love’s Sunday best in his hands. Handing it over had been his intent, but he couldn’t. He asked to put him in it himself. A strange request perhaps, but another handful of coins and paper drew the agreement he wanted.

He got to smooth his fingers over that blond hair, one last time.

Give it another thirty years. Please, let it not take thirty years.

The coffin was sent back to Massachusetts, with strict instructions for its burial. All of Andrew’s belongings went with him, little that he had, along with ample payment for his funeral. Eddie would not be attending, reminded of the promise he’d made never to return northwards.

He kept only the man’s pocket watch, engraved with his name and birth date. (He placed the little wooden bird in his love’s pocket. He’d been very fond of it.)

Finally, with a heavy heart, he’d reported the incident to the authorities.

His story had been unhelpful. No recognisable face, no leads. The list of suspects was endless and came to most of the city. Sheriff included, who had laughed when he’d stepped into his office.

His laughter had quelled to a mocking stare once he realised Eddie was serious.

He’d then left and only returned after a leisurely hour or two. He sat back at his desk and took his sweet time getting comfortable. Once he’d poured himself a glass of whisky, and a half full one to slide across the table, he spoke.

“You’ve got quite the story, Mr. Jones.” He said. “A violent incident like that is quite the large affair.”

Murder, that was what it was, but he skirted the word artfully. He received a slow, tired blink in response. His company said nothing.

With a shrug, the sheriff continued. “Don’t s’pose you have any idea who could commit such an act? Enemies of the late Mr. Haldane, perhaps?”

There was a tremor in that final statement. Almost laughter, amusement at how many men fit that description.

Having already been through this once, Eddie shook his head. His lips remained sealed. The names resting on his tongue were many. His grief spoke for him and left the officer’s lip curling. He didn’t like being ignored.

“Y’know, you two had a lot a nerve comin’ down here.” He muttered. “Upsettin’ the good folk of this city - not once but _twice_ , mind. There are some that might argue that Mr. Haldane’s unfortunate accident was a fitting comeuppance to his choice of lifestyle.”

Eyes darting to meet the sheriff’s, Eddie awoke from his trance. The spark in his mind caught. Fire bit at his heels.

“ _Accident?_ ” He whispered.

They shared a moment of silence, an angry stare against a knowing glower. One of the men sipped his drink.

“Of course.” The officer replied. He swirled his glass, before pointing to its comrade. “Whisky?” He asked.

That taste would be a welcome one, anything to soften the blows of this conversation. The pointed look sent his way let the bodyguard know it wasn’t an offer. It was an order and he obeyed stiffly, taking the drink from the desk.

His sip was small. A step back into an old, forgotten habit. He lowered the glass down to rest against his knee.

“Y’see, the thing is,” The sheriff’s smile was cruel. “If it’s _murder_ you’re crying- Well.”

He raised his dark eyebrows and leant back in his chair, drawing in an unsympathetic sigh. His fingers tapped his stomach nonchalantly.

“Then the most likely suspect would be _you_ , Mr. Jones.” He finished.

Their gazes were locked together again. The fire burst behind Eddie’s eyes as his fist clenched against his pants, twisting in his grip. The dried blood under his nails stained the fabric and his eye twitched. In his other hand, the whisky glass began to shake. The rage set every muscle in his body ablaze, the tapping of his heel becoming violent.

The sheriff’s smile faltered. He placed his drink slowly back on the table and moved his hand to rest on his pistol instead.

“I would never hurt him.” Eddie whispered.

The confession was barely audible, suited for a priest to hear rather than some city law officer. It was carried on his breath by violent rage and undying devotion, the light in his eyes fractured by the unshed tears he felt there. They stung where he held them back. He held them back with everything he had. Just like he clenched his fists and gritted his teeth and wished to be anywhere else in the world. That copper taste returned to drown the whisky on his tongue.

No sympathy was reflected in his company’s eyes. The officer’s smirk had returned, his hand retreating from his firearm. He mistook the deep distress he saw – and failed to understand – as fear of retribution. Trivial consequences, like a lifetime sentence or a hanging.

“Oh, Mr. Jones.” He breathed, shaking his head. “You must’ve realised how suspicious this all seems?”

Everything in his tone spoke to the opposite. Of course, the stupid mountain man from the backcountry didn’t realise. It fit like a tailored suit.

“You’re the sole beneficiary of Mr. Haldane’s last will and testament.” The sheriff explained, holding his palm up. “That’s a fair sum of money to inherit. A leap above any wage he might’ve been payin’. Makes it awful convenient that you didn’t see who might’ve wounded the poor man in the night, when it was just the two a’ you…”

The fist in Eddie’s pants tightened. The threads were straining, tearing under the grip. His gaze was unfocused, flashing over the polished desk. The wood moved like ocean waves, creaked like a prison ship, flashed in the light like a musket muzzle.

“C’mon,” The sheriff chuckled, “You get tired of him ridin’ your ass and decided to make some easy money?”

The glass in Eddie’s fingers shattered. Whisky splashed and shards burst over the floor. His clenched fist oozed warm crimson over his skin, the sound startling his company as he jerked back in his chair.

“Jesus-!” The officer cried, grabbing the pistol off his desk. The drink he held splashed over his blue uniform.

Blinking away whatever had consumed him, the bodyguard glanced down at his fingers. They opened to reveal the deep cuts in his palm. Droplets fell in slow succession, one after another, leaving blood stains on the floorboards. He said nothing.

What a cruel reminder of Andover’s hillside.

Over the other side of the desk, the sheriff had put some distance between them. He grabbed the cloth from his washbasin, wiped the back of his neck, then tossed it onto the table.

“Clean yourself up, man.” He demanded. “The Hell is wrong with you?”

Eddie didn’t have an answer for that. The list stretched on forever and only half of it was believable. An unwanted apology grew in his throat but it was violently repressed, swallowed back down as he turned his glare on the other man. His scowl was deep and his disgust unashamed.

He closed his fist and refused to take the cloth.

With a confused, horrified glance over his company, the officer sighed. The sound lacked his former confidence. He made up for it with a wave of his hand and a false bravado in his voice.

“I’m a busy man, Mr. Jones.” He spat. This game was no longer to his liking. “So, make up your mind real quick. I need to know how many men I’m gonna need to keep you under lock ‘n key.”

Wetting his lips, Eddie looked back at his bloody palm. He brushed the glass carefully from his skin, little good that it did, and addressed his boots when he spoke.

“Mr. Haldane’s death was…” He searched blindly for the answer.

A tragedy, a loss to the world. Another terrible conclusion to add to a lengthy list. _His fault_.

He wanted to say murder, to tell the truth. A short drop and a sudden stop didn’t scare him. He feared the wider picture; the dragging of Andrew’s good name, the inspection of his body, the sparks his killing might let loose. There was a pyre growing in this country and it was waiting to be set ablaze.

He imagined what his love might ask him to say. (The only opinion he cared for.) Would it be a plea for Eddie not to throw his life away for misplaced pride, or a demand that the cause be allowed to live on?

He thought he knew which.

“An accident.” He said.

Cowardice ran in his family. He closed his eyes to keep the wretchedness he felt silent. It killed him to hear and he regretted the words immediately.

The sheriff wagged a finger his way. “Now you’re getting it.”

If the officer gave a sigh of relief or laugh of triumph, Eddie didn’t hear it. He could only watch the blood pool in his palm, tilt his wrist to let it dribble to the floor with the rest. Such strength he possessed, yet he only found use for it in violence. (He hadn’t built anything worthwhile in several decades.) He found that a fitting curse on the Lord’s part, frowning as he finally felt he understood.

Each time he found Andrew, laid his hands on him even for the briefest moment, he left a crack. Sometime small, sometimes large. Cracks that branched out, growing over his love until he was barely together. Then all it’d take was a knock, a fall, a knife, a shot.

And he’d shatter. Eddie did that to him.

The sheriff was satisfied with his answer, returning to sit at his desk. He called for someone to come clean up his office, jabbing his finger at the door and demanding his visitor make himself scarce in the meantime.

With a nod, Eddie closed his fist. He stood up, gave his thanks, and turned to leave.

He didn’t offer his bloody hand to shake.

Like the predictable mutt he was, Eddie went back to Greenbrier.

He found his shitty cabin, ready to be patched up again. The crops were rotten and the roof had caved in. The work was a lot less enjoyable without company.

Andrew’s cause didn’t die with him and his country slipped into ruin. Oh, what eighty years had done to it.

The things Eddie heard from passing travellers became bloody. New states were appearing, dragged into the fray and bringing violence with them. Red stains out west, wars to the south. Another twenty years alone, hating himself harder than ever. The world reflected that hatred tenfold.

Polite greetings became suspicious stares when strangers passed, questions about his ‘beliefs’ before they would approach his door.

“No beliefs.” Eddie replied tiredly. He was back to fixing horseshoes and selling corn. ‘Revolutionary’ had gone back to plain old ‘farmer’. “Just lookin’ t’ get by.”

Whatever beliefs or causes he might have wished to be part of, they’d been cut from him two decades ago. By a sharp blade under a snowy sky, left in the alleyways of Columbia.

That answer sometimes satisfied, and sometimes it did not. The times it caused trouble inspired him to take another trip to Richmond in 1854, looking for that gunsmith he’d met all those years ago. The shop remained but it was larger, owned by the man’s grandson these days. There were all kinds of revolvers on the walls. Pistols that fired six shots without reloading, no flintlocks.

When he walked back to Greenbrier, Eddie wasn’t carrying a rifle against his shoulder.

In the crook of his arm, he held a double-barrelled shotgun.

War was declared and somebody bothered to tell Eddie. He couldn’t recall who or when.

Maybe he simply smelt it on the wind. That blood he’d glimpsed upon the risers came upon him, a tidal wave that overwhelmed his form before he could ever gulp for air.

Apparently, he lived in West Virginia now. Nobody seemed to care about the distinction.

Soldiers appeared. They wore grey at first. They were cruel and they were arrogant, and they wanted things. They demanded taxes and food and whisky and shelter.

They had a draft in their hand and a conscription order by 1862. It was like they wanted the mountain man personally.

Their officer certainly made it his business to get him, kicking down Eddie’s door after he spat on the man’s boot and told him to fuck off. He walked casually back inside after he did so, fearing no consequence. (Lucky he saw them coming. Under the floorboards, he slid Andrew’s watch, a jug of whisky, and his shotgun. Not enough shot for the whole company rolling up on his cabin, anyway.)

They’d never take him alive, so they’d never take him.

The door clattered open and a rifle butt slammed into the back of his head. With a cry of pain, Eddie was knocked to the ground, cracking his nose against the floor. It bled over the wood, running little red rivers between the boards. He snarled in return, wiping his hands messily over his muzzle. Blood was smeared across his mouth.

“Get up you piece a’ shit.” The lieutenant demanded, slamming his hand down on dining table.

He left a crumpled piece of paper there. A conscription notice, no doubt. The farmer whose name it bore was more interested in the men marching into his bedroom, upturning his home mercilessly. If they wanted a drink, they could ask. It would give their host a chance to spit in it first.

“C’mon, boy!” The officer slammed his hand against the table again, repeatedly thumping the surface. His impatience was legendary. “I’m a busy man! Got a whole hillside of cunts like you t’ visit so hurry up!”

Busy men always had been trouble for him. Eddie’s pained sigh, muffled by the hand running over his aching face, should have been one of defeat. It wasn’t a pleasant thought, to consider what he’d do if he weren’t afraid of death. What he’d do if Andrew were here, if he had someone to protect.

He didn’t so he pushed the thought aside. Stood up, turned around, and hooked his thumbs into his suspenders. His shirt was a rag and his boots broken at the heel. Compared to the gold-trimmed lieutenant he faced, he looked like less than nothing.

Nothing feared nothing, he supposed. He glanced over the other man, dragging his eyes up and down. A soft hum escaped his bloody nose.

“Nice coat.” He muttered.

The smirk he received accompanied the officer placing a grip on his sword hilt. Fancy, gilded like the rest of him. Shame about that ugly grey.

“Don’t worry.” He replied. “We ain’t got ‘em in your size.”

The farmer grunted. No, they did not. There’d never been a day he desired to be an officer, that was another man’s territory. Though standards had apparently slipped for recruitment.

There was a crash from the bedroom. The house’s owner glanced through the open doorway, watching as a soldier walked out with a candlestick and his copy of Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Probably to use the former to burn the latter.

Eddie grunted. He turned back to the lieutenant.

“If I scrounge up thirty dollars,” He asked casually, scratching his jaw, “You wanna go in m’ place?”

That was how war worked, just like they always did. On both sides.

The joke landed on rocky ground, resulting in a restrained chuckle and slow shake of the officer’s head. He seemed almost impressed. Maybe excited, the thrill of using excessive force becoming more justified by the minute.

“It don’t work like that.” He replied sympathetically. He tapped his gloved fingers against the paper on the table. “Not f’ boys like you.”

Again, Eddie grunted. Sighed once more as he approached, standing toe-to-toe with his accuser. He was taller than him by a good half a foot. The soldiers looting his home slowed, exchanging fearful glances before fumbling with the guns. All muzzles turned his way, the famer sure felt special.

He smiled.

“I ain’t no _boy_.” He replied.

At a hundred and seventy years old, he wasn’t going to let anyone forget that.

He punched that lieutenant. It felt good to bruise his knuckles on a deserving jaw.

Any debate about his enlistment was quickly settled once he was tackled by three soldiers, pinning him to the floor so they could slam their boots into his stomach. Fists met his face and his bloody nose started streaming again. He howled like a dog and they made sure to laugh at him for it.

Apparently, bullets weren’t for wasting on cowards. Messages had to be sent and Eddie was a model letter. First time for everything.

They dragged him outside by the hair, out under those apple trees he’d planted. The fruit hadn’t come into season yet. He could barely walk, his vision blurred by his black eyes and his hands tied behind his back.

They held his head up, wanting him to watch the rope slung over the branch. They let it dangle inches from his features. Desperate to have him change his mind, to hear him beg for mercy. When he gave them nothing, they punched him in the gut and shoved him into position.

Miles and miles away, there was a spot in a Boston square where a whipping post once stood. It had been all Eddie could see, shackled to its grip and waiting for a punishment he might have deserved.

Seeing West Virginia’s hillsides and the shadow of his home, close enough to run to, he wished he was back in Massachusetts. He’d face the sting of the whip a thousand times instead of this.

At least he was alone. Andrew wasn’t watching.

As the noose was tugged tight around Eddie’s neck, the lieutenant spoke. He was shaking his head with disappointment.

“Should’ve died for your country, Jones.” He decreed.

“ _Your_ country.” The farmer replied. “Not mine.”

Captain Haldane of the Second Massachusetts Regiment didn’t die from some fucking Confederate States of America. There were few certainties in his life, but that had to be one of them.

Was this what it was like, dying for a cause.

It couldn’t be. That was a high men chased with the upmost devotion, desperate to have their deaths mean something. This was a waste.

With a brave sniff, Eddie glanced down at the ground, still planted squarely beneath his feet. It seemed one Hell of a drop. An insidious pang of fear reminded him he’d never had this happen before. Death might find this method acceptable.

He hoped none of his executioners caught it, the dread in his eyes or the stutter of his inhale.

They gave him no last rights or chance for closing words. Just pulled on the rope and hoisted him upwards. Immediately, he was choking, kicking his legs and spluttering against the pain in his throat. The ocean swell overcame him, without the taste of salt or burning wreck of the Worthwhile in the distance. A dry agony engulfed him as he violently gasped for air.

“Tie it off. Let the toes of his boots brush the ground.” The officer was saying. “We want this show t’ last.”

If Eddie passed out, he couldn’t quite recall.

He gagged, bloodied spit splashing his chest, and he blinked. He swore he only blinked.

When his eyelids pulled back, the sky was dark. He was alone.

Between every agonising gasp, sucking barely a drop of air through his teeth, he wrestled with his bonds. Every jerk had his eyelids fluttering, his yells of pain silenced by the noose’s hold. He passed out again, sunlight burning his eyes as he awoke.

He lost track of time.

Never had he felt a pain like this before. This was what dying felt like, skirting the edge of the Devil’s grasp. A grip digging into his neck but not strong enough to claim him.

The scars around his wrists were cut deeper with each pull against them. The friction made him bleed, slicking the rope against his skin. With a final choking gasp, Eddie freed his hands. He clawed at the noose, ripping at it as an animal would, overwhelmed with the need to release himself.

Eventually, he managed it. How many hours it took, he couldn’t say. He couldn’t care.

His knees landed in the dirt as he wretched, finally able to scream. The strangled and broken cry he brought up was rubbed raw, stifled by the burning in his throat. The rope was gone but its hold remained.

He collapsed in the mud, choking up blood and bile and letting it mix with the dirt where it belonged. He dragged in heaving gulps to fill his chest and felt every one like a blade in his lungs. He rolled onto his back, trembling, releasing sobs towards the Heavens as he watched rain clouds brewing.

Which of his sins warranted this kind of violence, he couldn’t comprehend. In Boston, it had been so clear.

Cussing, fighting, theft, sodomy, murder. How many men did all of those and worse in their meagre, _pathetic_ lifetimes and never got strung up by the neck?

God was hateful, that was certain. And Eddie had His undivided attention, no matter where he ran or where he hid. Even without cause or country or company, he couldn’t escape.

The rain began to fall. It soaked his torn shirt and washed his bruised skin clean. His shivers turned from pain to cold, eyes closed against the cool water. It didn’t taste of salt. As the light faded, he crawled back to his cabin, hands coated in filth as he dragged himself home.

First chance he got, Eddie took an axe to that apple tree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Samuel Colt got his revolver patent in 1835/1836, the first none-flintlock revolver type, though flintlocks were still used for a time after.  
> \- Georgia did prescribe the death penalty for publication of material that would 'provoke a slave rebellion' in 1835.  
> \- There is actually a written 'Royal Code of Honour' from Britain citing the exact rules of pistol dueling specifically, that's ridiculously in-depth and is very heavy on avoiding actually going to pistols at all. How it translated to later American duels, I can't say.  
> \- There were no organised police forces in the US until 1844, so cities/counties relied on sheriffs and civilians, all of which were ridiculously corrupt.  
> \- The method of hanging used on Eddie doesn't employ any break in the neck like "proper" methods; it can take hours for a person to die this way. Stones were used in the 19th century as a means of prolonging a victims death by placing it at their feet so they'd be able to just support enough weight to survive until exhausted.


	8. Chapter 8

**_~~1834~~. 1863._ ** _  
Greenbrier County, ~~West~~ Virginia, ~~United~~ States of America._

By 1863, some of the soldiers were wearing blue.

They shot first and asked questions later. They hollered violent threats across the hillsides. They whooped and cheered when they managed to clip their target in the arm, leaving Eddie yanking a rag over a bleeding wound and groaning against the cabin wall. (He briefly missed his rifle’s range.)

He had to squint to tell the difference between these men and the one’s who’d strung him up from his apple tree.

Eddie awoke one night to the sound of undergrowth breaking and flames beginning to roar.

He threw open the door in his night shirt and barely pulled up pants. White knuckles were wrapped around his shotgun, hard enough to bend the metal. Sparks drifted over his home, caught on the summer breeze. He heard the hooting of men and the stamping of horses’ hooves.

They burned down his stable and his whisky distillery, shanty thing that it was. They tried to burn down his cabin too before he shot two of them. The rest fled at the crack of gunfire and the sight of the giant in the doorway, a dark figure against the fire. Their horses whinnied in fear and carried them away.

He doused the charred remains of his stable and outhouse, burnt down to the bones him and Andrew had erected long ago. They collapsed under his touch, piles of blackened rubble.

His cornfield was left ablaze. No buckets of water could remedy that.

In the orange light dancing over the hillside, the farmer watched his hard work turn to ash. The heat left sweat on his brow and the smoke drew coughs from his lungs. He covered his mouth with his arm. The fire reflected in his eyes, wide and betrayed.

For the life of him, Eddie couldn’t understand _why_. His farm burned and no sin could justify the punishment.

He knew those soldiers wore blue.

Bushwacker, they called him these days. Greyback. Butternut. _Rebel_.

Farmer had become an enviable title. Who would’ve thought it’d ever become too good for him.

The toe of Eddie’s boot shifted the ash and charred earth. Scorched, blackened beyond repair. Amongst the debris, he occasionally unearthed a half-alive ear of corn. He held each in his dirty hands for a moment, mourning their loss. He tossed them back to the ruined ground.

He missed ‘paddy’. That was at least accurate for the times. There was something distinctly cutting about being called something you weren’t.

But then, he’d always loathed that surname of his. 

Eddie wasn’t a philosophical man. He couldn’t say at what point a just cause was soured by its zealots’ actions.

What he could say was that he no longer greeted men at his door with cheese gifted from a Frenchman. He greeted them with a loaded shotgun. And he didn’t hesitate to pull the trigger.

Blue, grey, back again. Their uniforms were all equally ugly. Their gold trim was muted and the dull colours were made to hide, not fight. Conceal themselves in the brush and between the trees, pick their shots and have their fun on West Virginia’s hillsides.

This was Union territory now. Officially.

Sure didn’t feel like that. Or maybe it did, Eddie wouldn’t know. The new lines in the sand weren’t his business. They’d be moved in a few hundred years, erased entirely perhaps.

He wondered if the land around his farm – _his_ land, let any document dare say otherwise – had been marked on both their maps. Circled in ink and labelled hostile. He’d like that. He wasn’t that important, however.

Either way, the battle marched closer. He awoke to gunshots in the night, shocking him out his bed. His shotgun rested under his pillow; an uncomfortable place to lay his head, but what else could he do.

It was better than the loving hands Andrew placed on him in his dreams, closing around his neck to strangle him. (Eddie chose to forget, ignoring the nightmares that were appearing without his invitation, costing him valuable rest. He’d never had them before, not since the early days of Monongahela. He refused to acknowledge that those tight fingers had a noose’s grip. And he refused to think about why it was his love’s face he saw above him.)

He distracted himself, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he staggered out the bedroom and kicked open his front door. Every night, he was met with silence. Crickets and the creak of the porch under his feet. The blasts were distant and a hillside away. He remained alone.

He’d stand and listen, breath held tight in his chest. Nothing would come for him.

Each time, he’d collapse against the landing. Bare feet in the dirt, hand in his hair, shotgun in a tight grip. He’d exhale his exhaustion and beg to find a man on the other side of the door sometime soon.

Someone who could blow two barrels through his chest and send him down to the place he yearned to go. Didn’t matter if they wore blue or grey.

Eddie collected their canteens, the soldiers who dared approach his door and meet his shotgun. Whether dressed in blue or grey, they were the only trophies he would take. Right before he kicked them into shallow graves.

They were all the same; grey fabric covering metal bottles, no difference between sides. The Confederates didn’t have good enough equipment of their own, not even to carry water. They would take them from the Union men, and Eddie would take from them _both_.

He hung them from his porch roof, those round canteens. A horrible little windchime. It rattled in the breeze and replaced the music box tune. He couldn’t escape the music, might as well make it sound as macabre as he’d always known it was.

This war might just be the death of him. Spiritually, if not physically.

His morality hadn’t died, he knew that.

It had never existed. Without Andrew, he lost himself.

In the early hours of a winter morning, 1863, the gunshots weren’t so distant.

His windows shattered, bursting glass over the bedroom. Painful hail tore his sheets, splinters from the cabin walls following as his home was caught in a brutal crossfire.

It bolted Eddie awake with a force that rattled his bed. He rolled onto the floorboards; his blankets caught his leg, a snarl echoing across the bedroom as he pulled himself free. A hand was shoved under the pillow; he grabbed his shotgun, keeping his ass on the floor as he lent his back against the bedframe. Another loud crack or six told him the cover was justified. Call it intuition.

Those shots were _outside_ and they weren’t separated by any hillside.

Checking his cartridges, he dragged both hammers back with a click. His fingers flexed against the long barrels. He stared at the opposite wall and traced the patterns in the wood with his gaze. There were bullet scars there, fresh and bleeding. It took but a moment to steel himself.

Taking lives wasn’t the motivation for the pause.

Never one to keep score or enjoy mathematics, Eddie had lost track of the men he’d put down in as many decades. Justified killings, some of them, if you could justify such a thing. This last year had seen another pile added. Five, six, maybe more. Blue and grey, he didn’t differentiate.

Like he said, he wasn’t keeping score. And they’d shot first.

Outside, yells rose as the gunfire continued. They couldn’t match the rapid volley that had awoken him, moving to periodic cracks from the treeline. Whoever was returning fire towards the cabin, they were retreating. Their opponents were pursuing them.

But not _all_ of them.

Wetting his dry lips, Eddie exhaled deeply. He glanced down at his shotgun.

“Don’t y’ fail me, now.” He muttered. He patted her barrels.

She wasn’t as beautiful as his old rifle, gun metal and dark wood that she was. Looks could be deceiving; he’d buried the soldiers she’d taken a bite out of. Gruesome remains she left in her wake.

The farmer smiled crookedly. He pushed himself up.

He used the backdoor of his cabin. It creaked quietly, the muzzle of his weapon leading where he pushed it aside. He stepped out into the morning light, white rays in the winter. Snow was coming.

Silence greeted him. No crickets, all scared off by the crunch of boots, and the creak of his cabin covering his footfalls. He paced carefully, knees bent as he moved with his back against the wall.

A glance over the scorched ruins of his stable and distillery found bodies, littering his homestead. Several grey, unmoving and staring up at the sky, their fiery cause extinguished. A blue or two, as well. They’d met each other head on before either could kick down his door for shelter, a mutually destructive dance. The flies were already buzzing, landing on those lifeless eyes.

The quiet unnerved Eddie. If every soldier had left, retreated or otherwise, he’d know. He wouldn’t breathe so cautiously.

He heard a groan and soft cuss from around the corner; someone couldn’t handle the smell of war. The farmer’s inhale was short and restrained. He checked his shotgun, one last time. Hammers back, finger on the first trigger.

Stepping around the corner, he brought his barrels down and fired through the stranger’s back. The man screamed but it died on his tongue, chest burst from the impact and blown off his feet. Across the yard, his comrade was fixing his bayonet. He cried for help, fumbling with his rifle as he watched his friend spasm in the mud.

Eddie got to see this soldier’s face, briefly, before he pulled the second trigger. He hit the boy – and he was just a boy, to be sure – in the head, neck snapping as his skull was thrown back. A wet slap marked him falling backwards against the dirt. His one intact eye was wide and glassy where he stared outwards, watching the brain seep from his broken forehead.

There were cries from out front and they were swiftly hushed by fearful orders. The farmer slammed his back against the wall, already snapping open his weapon and reloading. A practiced art he never made a mistake with. His chest heaved in an unsteady rhythm, up and down, up and down, as he fought against the thrill in his veins. Excitement met fear, nostalgia battling with uncertainty.

He’d fought quite the list of battles. All like this. _None_ like this.

Never outside his home.

A soft snap, a burnt twig breaking underfoot, gave the approaching soldier away. Pity, he’d otherwise have been successful in his creeping attack. When he peered around the side of the house, trying to scout his shot, he stared down two dark barrels.

Any scream he might have made was rendered silent, replaced by the crack of the shotgun blast. He never knew what hit him.

His comrade gave himself away. He yelled the man’s first name – they must have been close – and was foolish enough to rush to his aid. The distinct clunk of his canteen scraping the ground told Eddie he was on his knees. Pressing palms to a bubbling jaw, no doubt, trying to force the brittle bone back where it belonged.

His killer turned the corner. The boy was so overwhelmed by his friend’s body, he didn’t even look up.

That made it easier. Two barrels brushed his forehead. One fired.

Eddie stood to the side of his porch, surrounded by burnt corn and still bodies, and watched that last soldier slump to the ground. Blood met soil, bringing no new life to the scorched earth. It just turned the dry dirt to mud.

When the farmer inhaled, drawing in a deep breathe, he tasted no satisfaction.

This couldn’t be revenge, if he truly felt like corn needed avenging. (Were he a mortal man, who couldn’t survive the gnawing hunger in his gut, then it might be justified.)

See, revenge felt good.

He’d recognise the feeling, since he’d had those who’d wronged him under his fists. He’d bloodied and he’d beaten and he’d broken men who had done the unforgiveable. The lust for harder hits and the red-hot delight he’d felt then didn’t match the now.

The gun metal was cold in his grip as he leisurely reloaded, watching the spent shells fall. The emptiness inside him stretched on forever.

These men burnt his home, tried to murder him without even asking his name. While he was free of remorse, he should feel some form of gratification. None came.

That was it, wasn’t it. These men had wronged _him._ They hadn’t wronged Andrew.

Only the latter was worth avenging, and Eddie always saluted the opportunity. By contrast, wronging a Godless, causeless, worthless man wasn’t much of a sin to speak of.

As he inspected his reloaded shots, another burnt twig snapped. (Funny how these Union boys’ undoing would be their own violence. The burnt ground made it impossible to move quietly, unless you lived on it.)

The farmer glanced across the porch. The final side of the house left uninspected fell quiet. Whoever lurked around the corner shied away from his gaze, and his cheek twitched.

One more body for the count. One more canteen for the windchime.

His shotgun snapped shut.

Circling the porch, Eddie bent and scooped up a charred ear of corn. The irony fluttered on his lips, the tiniest of crooked smiles as he rolled the ruined crop in his hand. In his other, he kept his fingers on those triggers. Both of them, this time.

He reached the corner. He could hear the faintest, steadiest of breathing. Another man in blue – perhaps even grey – out of sight and steeling himself against the unknown. He must know those gunshots weren’t his men’s, came not from a friendly force.

They all sounded the same to Eddie.

He tossed the corn over the roof. It clattered against the boards and bounced were it slid downwards. The noise was enough, the quiet gasp he heard as his victim turned away. Towards the sound, a momentary but perfect distraction.

With his long legs, it took a single stride for the farmer to leap around the corner. To face whoever stood between the wall of his cabin and his shotgun muzzle, back against the wood where he tried to conceal himself.

Eddie squeezed both triggers. He didn’t miss.

He fired both barrels into Andrew Haldane.

The shot struck him in the side, scattering against his stomach. The revolver in his hand fell instantly, ripped from his grip as a scream of agony wracked his body. His hands clutched at his wound, fingers stained red like the sash beneath his belt. Downwards his eyes darted, wide and shocked and straining under his trembling brow. His stuttering gasps gave away his effort; he fought to stay silent. To release only one undignified yell, a rebellious shout when the pain consumed him. He gave gurgling whimpers instead, clawing at his ruined gut as if to tear away the damage.

The cold sunlight turned his blond hair grey. Under the cabin’s shadow, his eyes were so blue.

That shotgun fell beside its pistol companion, slipping from its owner’s grasp.

“No…” Eddie whispered. “No, no, _no_ -!”

His feet betrayed him. A single step backwards, staggering as he caught himself from collapsing. His vision tilted, blurred, then realigned. His heel in the dirt supported his upright cause.

Wide eyes never left the blossoming wound, the dark drip, drip, dripping against his cabin wall.

His lip trembled. His lungs refused to draw air. His fingers locked in place, holding a phantom weapon they’d already disregarded. The breeze blew against his cheek and the Lord tried to help him look away. He couldn’t.

He watched and wondered _why_.

Head tipping back, Andrew turned his gaze Heavenwards for but a moment. His skull knocked against the cabin, his eyelids fluttered, his lips whispered something inaudible.

Gradually, _hideously_ ; he slid down against the wall. A dark streak was left in his wake. He found the dirt, a leg outstretched and one knee up. He held his guts in with both hands and let his chest fall tiredly.

After a moment to himself, an age of staring into nothingness, he tilted his head. His gaze followed sluggishly, finally reaching his assailant’s features.

His brow twitched. It wasn’t pain that furrowed his expression.

The man above him, creeping closer with terrified steps, stared back with tearful eyes. Trembling hands, a bobbing throat, a dirty face contorted in horror. These weren’t the features of a zealous Confederate, a defender of his rebellious cause. This couldn’t be the person who’d slipped outside his ruined home and mercilessly cut down the soldiers he discovered.

The causeless man Andrew found looking down on him, hovering over his crippled and shaking form, was nothing like the enemy he’d been promised.

Cold, dirty fingers reached out. They almost reached him – _almost_ – but hesitated at the last moment. They didn’t brush his cheek, though the Union officer swore they intended to. He swore it, captured in the hideous dismay that twisted his enemy’s face.

“Please,” This farmer begged quietly, “Please, no…”

Whom he was pleading with, neither knew.

Andrew didn’t understand. He drew a shuddering breath, wracked with agony where it vibrated his gut. The blood oozed over his fingers, thawing his skin against the chill. Only his hands felt warm, his body suffering the cold despite his sweat.

There was no way out of this. He knew his destination. Yet the tearing pain that had his body jerking violently, pulling fearful hisses through gritted teeth, would stretch the journey tenfold. He groaned and glanced briefly towards his revolver.

Eddie’s gaze followed. Despite all expectations, the taller man made no move to grab it. He merely turned back to his company, lips trembling where he pressed them tightly together. He sucked in his sobs and said nothing.

They held each other’s stares. With a hitch in his chest and a heaving grunt, Andrew tried to reach out. His slick fingers slid uselessly against his weapon’s polished grip, his own sob short and frustrated where he held in a scream.

A large, mud-streaked hand brushed his. He watched as the revolver was lifted carefully from the dirt and placed in his fingers. His helper, in all his strangeness, seemed miserable in his aid.

Why return a weapon to your enemy’s hand?

The gun was brought back to Andrew’s chest. He pressed it there for a moment, breathing a sigh of relief. He closed his eyes and held his pistol tightly, clutched against his breast like his most precious possession. It was, in this instance. He’d be needing it.

Revenge would be taken, Eddie assumed. He’d make sure it felt good. He hoped, deeply and rottenly, that this time justice could be provided. Let this man – this perfect, valiant, compassionate man – be the one to put him down like the old dog he was.

Let this be the end he longed for.

The hammer pulled back with a click under Andrew’s thumb. With a longing glance downwards and a terrible sniff, the officer twisted it in his grip. He held it out and offered it for his company to take.

Eddie had underestimated his love, again and again and again. His stupidity was boundless, and it dragged bile up his throat to be reminded such.

His terrified gasp was pitiful. The revolver didn’t retreat, forced into his line of sight. Presented for him handle-first with a stern, desperate stare.

He took it to stop Andrew holding it up, to settle that deadly tremor in his arm, the effort causing sweat to bead across his brow. It felt heavy in the farmer’s hand, heavier than any flintlock despite being twice as light.

The officer lent back against the wall. For all his bleeding and shaking, he might have seemed comfortable. He lowered his knee so both legs were outstretched, sat as any resting man might. He could enjoy the rising sun, flashing over the treeline. With bloody hands, he held his wound.

They shared another stare. It burned with a silent request.

No amount of stupidity could conceal what Andrew wanted. It didn’t suit him, the pleading in his eyes, wet where he held back a dreadful pain.

He was hurting. He needed help and, for the first time in almost two centuries, he hadn’t the words to ask for it.

Ah, the perfect irony.

Eddie pressed the revolver to his forehead. His hand trembled violently. Andrew closed his eyes and lent against the muzzle. He looked as peaceful as he had in Andover, with those flowers between his fingers. His dry lips drew in a rattling inhale.

“Thank you...” He muttered, barely above a whisper. He meant it. He was hurting bad.

Suicide was a sin, after all. Otherwise, he’d pull the trigger himself.

His executioner choked on his sob, an ugly snarl of pain that brought the gun away from its target. He shook his head, squeezing fat tears down his cheeks. He couldn’t. He _couldn’t_.

Cowardice ran in his family.

The revolver withdrew further, hanging limply by his side. The farmer drew in deep breathes, forcing out his fear and his regret and every emotion he could find. This wasn’t about him and he had to remember that. This wasn’t about him. This had _never_ been about him.

Whatever he felt could wait. A thousand years, it could wait.

Below him, Andrew swallowed thickly. He sniffed, keeping a grunt behind his lips. It lurched his chest and brought another splatter of blood from his wound. The liquid fell over his lap and dribbled into the dirt.

“Please-!” He begged angrily.

Somewhere between irritation and despair, he tried to keep his voice level. He stopped, closed his eyes, and tried again.

“Please.” He panted. “Have mercy.”

That almost made Eddie laugh. It was hidden behind a choke, a lurch in his throat.

The Lord had dutifully withheld this script page, desperate for His punchline. This had to be His finest comedy to date. He better keep His immortal entertainment alive forever, as promised, and keep Hell’s door closed - or risk allowing His demise into the afterlife.

Andrew’s request spurred Eddie to action, at least.

The Union officer watched as this strange man shook his head, slow at first, then harder. His revolver was shoved down the back of dirty pants and that fatal shotgun collected from the ground. His enemy disappeared, rushing to leave the scene. The cabin’s front door opened and slammed with a clatter. Everything outside was left to the flies and quiet gasps of pain.

Andrew rested his head back against the wall, unable to hold it upright. He sniffed bravely. He waited for death in dignified silence, steeling himself for the next rush of agony that would take him. Behind his closed eyes, he imagined better things than this.

Who knew what those might be. Maybe birds flying over Massachusetts, a creaking textile mill, pretty winter’s snow. A church on a distant hilltop, watching over the town of his birth.

The cabin door opened again.

Once, on a street in Columbia, Eddie had tried to lift his love out of the dirt. (He hated seeing Andrew in such a position. There was nowhere he belonged less than near the ground.)

He’d stopped because he’d been told to. It cost him dearly; twenty-seven years of loneliness and violence, always wondering if he could’ve done differently.

He’d known then that he couldn’t save Andrew. Not really. Such wounds were fatal.

Eddie wouldn’t react the same way this time. He wouldn’t wait for Andrew to succumb against that filthy ground. He could never rectify his mistake, but he would bleed to ease the pain.

With torn cloth, he returned to the side of his cabin. He staunched his love’s wound with fabric ripped from his bedsheet. Every moment was a test, the officer’s yells of pain and fumbling hands desperate to keep him away. Too bad, the farmer had heard them before.

They pierced him deep, an old bayonet twisting in familiar places. He bit his tongue and snarled those feelings away. This wasn’t about him.

He scooped up the confused and protesting Andrew, using the strength God gave to carry him inside. The strength reserved for violence, the strength that shattered whatever it touched.

The blond had his eyes closed, sparing him the sight of his slaughtered men as he was carried over the threshold. He was laid against the table first, the one they’d shared many a meal at. This time, no potatoes and drippings were prepared. Just a bundled shawl for him to rest his head against.

The officer was left to stare at an unfamiliar ceiling, gaze ricocheting around the hostile home. The floorboards scraped where the washstand was pulled closer, basin ready and cloth hanging over the bowl’s edge. When the mountain man retreated a second time, he returned with a kettle.

And a knife.

“What-?” It was drawn from Andrew as a gasp, finished by a fearful shake of his head, “What are you doing?”

He found a blank stare returned his way. His caretaker filled the basin then turned away again.

Eddie placed the kettle back on the stove and began rummaging for his whisky jug. When he found it, he poured a cup and brought it swiftly to the blond’s lips.

“Drink.” He said weakly. “Y’ gonna need it.”

Every time he blinked, tears rolled over his cheeks. They left tracks in the dirt on his face.

After a single glance, from averted eyes to the cup offered, Andrew relented. If pity made him take a gulp of the whisky, then let the farmer be pitiful. Anything to force the alcohol down his throat.

Another cup followed. It spilled over the blond’s chin, dribbled onto the table. He coughed and gasped between swallows.

He was hurting bad.

Once he’d seen to his love, Eddie took a cupful for himself. He knocked it back, then a second, then took up the knife. His hand shook but he quelled it. One look at Andrew did the trick; his nostrils were flaring as he breathed deep, glare turned on the ceiling as his lip trembled.

There was fear in his eyes.

The farmer would do anything to change that expression.

He cut away the leather belt and red sash. He noticed the flinch as the blade approached. Andrew thought he’d be hurt. (Before today, Eddie would have laughed at the idea. He’d never hurt his love. He’d never. Yet he deserved that flinch and all the ache it left in him.) The insignia of a captain were clear as that blue coat and pale shirt were cut away too.

The wound was deep, blasted through the man’s lower side.

Eddie’s hands hovered over the horror, knife rattling in his fingers. With a snarl, Eddie stabbed the blade into the table. He held it there, grip tight enough to snap the handle, and wrenched out a strangled sob.

He refused to look at his patient, to see the hazy, drunken, pained eyes gazing his way. Confused and unfamiliar, strangers in each other’s presence.

It made it easier on the victim’s side, to be shot by a stranger.

The farmer blew out his cheeks and shoved his hands in the basin. With the dirt rubbed frantically away, he returned to the wound.

He wanted to ask Andrew to prepare himself. All that came out was a grunt.

Eddie shoved his fingers under the man’s skin. The officer dutifully convulsed, howling with his head thrown back and his hands gripping the table. His legs kicked uselessly but he fought to remain still. His scream was hideous and loud; it would be remembered.

Did he know, maybe? Did he know this wasn’t torture at his expense?

Who knew. The farmer’s head was spinning, tongue between his teeth as he searched for the pieces of shot he knew he’d find.

They plopped out onto the floor as he caught them, pulling them free. Blood dribbled after them. He worked as fast as he could.

Immediately, his bloody hands were on the washcloth, soaking it in the warm water and squeezing it over the wound. The hiss he received was music to his ears compared to the scream that wracked Andrew before. He watched the damp skin of the man’s throat rise and fall with his swallows, his dignity restored with his eyes tightly shut.

He was shaking. Every tremor rattled Eddie’s morale.

He drew the cloth over the wound to free it of the dirt, but the flesh continued to bleed. It brought a whine from his gritted teeth, low and quiet. His feelings weren’t important. He vanished from the table and returned with the kettle he’d left against the stove.

It was empty. The metal hissed softly. It was burning orange like his corn fields had.

“I’m sorry.” The farmer whispered, his words cracking under his grief.

If his love screamed again, it might kill him, and they could finish this awful dance once and for all. That was the hope that motivated his hand, drawing the hot metal closer to that red smeared skin.

A weak fist grabbed his shirt. The kettle froze, held over his patient. Andrew dragged his eyes upwards, the erratic movement of his chest stammering his request.

“M-My belt-” He begged.

With a confused scowl, Eddie swallowed. A frantic flicker of his gaze tried to find a reason for the request. Wretched as he was, completely failing to understand, he squatted down and searched blindly for the leather. A difficult feat, with the burning kettle still upraised.

Dogs did as they were told, that wouldn’t change. It wasn’t for them to know why.

His fingers found it eventually. He stood back up and showed the other man.

“Give it to me…!” Andrew hissed.

He released his grip on the table, fingers trembling where they were handed the belt. With a heavy sigh, he placed it between his teeth. He bit down, hard. His arm dropped, grabbing the wood once more.

Beside him, the famer understood. He wished he didn’t.

In the hope he wouldn’t have to speak, he moved the kettle closer. He gave his love a final nod. He received a rapid, trembling one in return.

Eddie pressed the boiling metal down on the skin. Even around the belt, Andrew screamed.

There were some sounds a man never forgot.

The tap, tap, tap of tools on a wooden roof. Hooves approaching on a dirt track. Creaks of a ship’s hold. Sea shanties far from the ocean. A pair of scissors snipping.

The man you loved screaming under your hand.

After Andrew passed out, Eddie cleaned his cauterised wound with brine he’d made.

He stitched the flesh together where needed. The bandages it was wrapped in were clean, more strips from his bed sheets. They were tied with careful hands, laid in perfect lines around the body he loved so dearly. He cut away the fine cotton shirt and wrangled the remains of that Union coat off the man’s arms. The bloody trousers and underwear were replaced with some of the farmer’s own.

They were shabby. They were his best, and he didn’t deserve to wear them again.

The bloody water was thrown out. Gentle hands and a fresh cloth returned to run over Andrew’s forehead. They smoothed down his hair, carefully wiping the dirt from his locks. They took the grime and the sweat and the imperfections with them. (It wasn’t good enough, nothing like a proper bath. It was all Eddie had to offer.)

With his duties completed and his love asleep against his table, Eddie pulled up a chair.

He sat and he rested his elbows on the surface, brushing his company’s thighs. He buried his face in his hands. His sobs were heavy and deep. Loud, undignified, and pitiful.

They would have rocked the table, had he not fought against the tremors.

He’d never disturb Andrew with his burdens.

When Andrew’s eyes opened, he found himself under another unfamiliar ceiling.

Hazy as his vision was, drunk on whisky and a crippling ache in his side, he knew it to be a bedroom. Sensations of a rough mattress at his back, pillows propping him up between lying and sitting, all pointed to a bed. Blankets were about but only over his legs; the hearth beyond the doorway was crackling loudly, burning at full capacity.

The shattered windows were covered by canvas and hastily nailed boards to keep out the chill. He could still see through a corner, a glimpse of the outside. Candles flickered from a single bookshelf, empty of all reading material.

The blond groaned softly. He glanced down at his gut, hidden by the blanket and bandages.

Merciful indeed. He didn’t want to see what lurked beneath.

It was a miracle he’d awoken. Whether he thanked the Lord for that, nobody could know.

There was noise from the other room; it stopped as soon as he heard it. Groaning quietly as he did, Andrew assumed the cabin’s owner wouldn’t notice.

A tall, menacing figure appeared swiftly in the doorway; he’d been listening. A man recognisable for his wild curls and wide blue eyes, though no shotgun adorned his hands. He stood for a moment, fearful, as if he were in danger in his own home.

Long strides brought him to the bedside and the captain inhaled sharply. It sent a sting up his spine and he grunted, releasing the breath. He forced his breathing to steady, in and out.

It gave him time to observe Eddie. Who, as soon as he heard that initial gasp, retreated. Half a step back, outstretched hands clenching into tight fists. The farmer sniffed and nodded, telling himself he deserved the reaction.

Which he did. This was his doing.

Beside the bed, he took the cloth from the washbasin. He squeezed it out twice, thorough in all his care. When he approached this time, he took his paces slow.

“I-” He stopped and swallowed. The sob was pushed back down where it belonged. “This’ll help.”

He showed Andrew the cloth, soaked in cool water. The man eyed it coldly and gave no response. It broke the farmer’s heart, another fissure in the exhausted organ.

“Please.” He begged. “I just wanna help.”

With a shaky sigh, the blond averted his eyes. Far from a yes but certainly not a no. Eddie accepted it, as he would all coldness from this man. Every moment of silence, he would take as his punishment.

The cloth was dabbed delicately over Andrew’s forehead. It took the sweat and the heat with it, cooling his clammy skin. The gentle touch, tender in its motions despite the calloused hand steering it, drew narrowed eyes Eddie’s way.

“Why?” The captain asked. His voice was hoarse from screaming, low and dark and bubbling with distrust.

The cloth retreated. It returned renewed, dipped back into the basin. It was all the pause the farmer allowed himself, searching for an answer.

How desperately he wished to tell the truth. Fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness from the man who knew him, who knew how terrible a mistake he’d made.

Instead, he tailored his words for a stranger. Every syllable had his tongue bleeding.

“I shot you.” Eddie said. “I didn’t-”

Another harsh swallow. He had to look away, bite his lip hard and shake his head. His exhale was cutting, trembling as he held back the tidal wave crashing over him. An ocean he’d navigated many a time, turned on him violently.

Grief, it was called.

“I didn’t mean to.” He sniffed, finally ready to face his patient again. “I swear, I didn’t mean to.”

Those blue eyes below crinkled at the edges. Confusion and a little concern were carved in the skin, far paler and damper than it should be. It didn’t matter that the emotion wasn’t happiness or recognition.

Anything was better than the cold, unsympathetic gaze of an enemy.

“I don’t understand.” Andrew whispered. Each word marked a twitch of his cheek.

Speaking was difficult. He lay rigidly still, always glancing down at his gut. Only spoonfuls of air passed his lips, minimising his pain.

Eddie saw to that first. He sighed shakily and held up a submissive hand. ‘Wait’. His retreat to the other room was swift and he brought a cup of whisky back with him. The jug, too, in his spare hand. He set it down on the floor.

“Please,” He asked again, lowering himself to one knee, “I’ll tell you whatever y’ want, just- Just drink.”

He lifted the cup to the captain’s lips. It was rejected, the man’s head turning away.

The farmer squeezed his eyes shut and forced his reaction down. His feelings weren’t important.

“Please-!” He spat, grief galvanising in his veins. “It’ll ease the pain!”

Eyeing him once more, that same confusion in his eyes, Andrew relented. He lent towards the cup and allowed it to be tipped towards his mouth. He gulped down the whisky hungrily after a first sip, closing his eyes as he accepted the fact. Nothing else could mend the talons clawing at his gut.

When the cup retreated, he sighed. He glanced tiredly down at the man on the floor.

“Thank you.” He said.

For the first time in this lifetime of theirs, Eddie smiled. It was broken and trembled at the edges. He tried his best to keep the cracks to a minimum.

“If there’s anythin’ y’ need-” He whispered, pressing his voice to grow louder, hold firmer, “Just ask me. I’ll try m’ best.”

The captain blinked slowly. His lip twitched and curled upwards on one side. He hummed.

“Don’t think there’s much to be done for me now.” He admitted.

Eddie sunk down to both knees, as if the words had struck him. Once again, his gaze turned on the floorboards. He’d never heard the man he loved be so cruel.

Andrew grunted softly, his eyes already slipping shut.

“I’d-” He sighed, lost to the whisky and his wounds, “I’d like to sleep.”

The farmer hung his head and let his silence agree for him. He recognised the sounds of the blond succumbing to unconsciousness, the familiar rumble of his chest in slumber. Only the breaths were shorter, fluttering as beads of sweat continued to erupt across his forehead.

Wiping his nose, Eddie rose to his feet. He took the cloth, refreshed it, and repeated his work from before.

No kiss was laid against the clean skin. He didn’t deserve that joy.

Eddie slept on the floor, against the opposite wall of the bedroom.

A second bed had been there once, built for a handsome sailor in exchange for lessons in French. When said sailor had moved to share his lover’s mattress, that bed was no longer needed and had been dismantled.

That was alright. Eddie deserved the floor.

Curled in on himself, he faced the wall and listened to the shallow breathing from his bed. He shut his eyes against the sound and kept his weeping quiet. Laying in a ruined cabin, stood on ruined ground, with a ruined lifetime hanging all around him. Outside, his windchime rattled miserably.

That pained breathing shifted. A fraction of a change.

The farmer rolled over, checking if Andrew had awoken. He was at his beck and call, of course, ready to tend to him day or night. But the officer didn’t move. He appeared to still be asleep.

Good, he hadn’t caught Eddie’s muffled sobs. With a sniff, the tall man settled back against the floor.

If he disturbed his love, he’d put his shotgun to his knee and pull the trigger.

Dawn broke. It was white in the winter.

Andrew wasn’t roused by the light; the smell of food brought him back to consciousness, groaning as he shifted uncomfortably. His throat was dry and his coughs agony. When he blinked, tears threatened to escape.

Everything, from his hip to his shoulder, ached with an unbearable pain.

He bore it was gritted teeth and watched Eddie appear in the doorway. A plate was set down beside the bed and a chair pulled up. The farmer reached for the whisky jug first. He poured a cup and held it out.

His patient didn’t resist this time and gulped down his painkiller without argument. Another cupful later and Eddie picked up the plate again.

The officer licked his lips, enjoying the taste he found. His eyes moved slowly towards the food he was being offered, if one could call it that.

The greying slop steamed softly. It was far from appetising.

Andrew’s lip curled slightly, though disgust would be the wrong description. Misery overtook his features, eyes crinkling as he held back his disappointment. There were few comforts for a dying man, and this wasn’t one. He’d mistakenly hoped for some small happiness in his breakfast.

Swallowing down his shame, Eddie sniffed.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered. “I don’t have nothin’ else.”

Watery grits were all he could offer, ground down from the corn ears he’d salvaged. The cold had taken all hope of a full meal. That, and the Union men who’d burned his crops.

He didn’t mention that. Merely dipped a spoon in his pathetic offering and hesitantly moved it towards his patient’s mouth.

Solemnly, his eyes closed, Andrew nodded. He took the mouthful and swallowed it without complaint. It slid down his throat like a lump of coal. He endured it silently.

He never complained about anything.

The food was warm, at least. That seemed to placate the taste and texture, which left much to be desired. He took the next spoonful offered a little easier.

Together, they cleared the plate. It was set down on the floor.

“Whisky and grits…” The officer murmured, the alcohol loosening his tongue.

Far from what he was used to and exactly what he’d expect. The curl of his lip was amused by the statement. A half-smile that vanished as he found the man beside him trembling.

Eddie’s eyes were clenched shut as he sniffed again, another ugly and wet sound.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered, voice cracking under his grief. “I wish I had more t’ give.”

Hadn’t he given enough.

Watching his company apologise so earnestly broke Andrew’s frown. Just a crack, his apathetic demeaner dying with his confusion. Or maybe the whisky was warming his veins. It didn’t matter, as long as his suspicion faded.

“What’s your name?” He asked softly, tiredly.

From beneath his curls, Eddie sent a miserable look towards the officer.

“Eddie.” He replied. Nothing more.

No bastard surname, no risk of ‘Mr. Jones’ returning. Formality would be the final nail on this lifetime’s coffin.

The blond hummed. He didn’t comment. “Why’re you nursing me, Eddie?”

With a steadying sigh, the farmer shook his head as if he didn’t know. The answer was complicated and almost two hundred years old. His hands fisted in his dirty pants at the thought of explaining.

“I don’t want you t’ die.” He muttered eventually. It would have to do.

Andrew’s eyes had slipped shut. Peacefully, expending no extra effort in his state. He hummed again, content to converse where he couldn’t see reality. With his pain dulled by drink and his imagination leading him elsewhere, out of his enemy’s home and away from this war.

“Some things aren’t up to us.” He muttered.

God, how right he was.

He licked his lips and swallowed again. “Captain Andrew Haldane.” He added.

He coughed after his name, expression twisted in disgust. He must’ve tased blood on his tongue. He pushed onwards, exactly as expected. It killed his company to watch.

“Tenth… West Virginia Infantry Regiment.” Andrew huffed, swallowing down the discomfort he felt.

How he could recite his obituary so calmly, Eddie would never understand. Every gasped syllable was akin to striking the farmer in the ribs, cutting into him with precise jabs. He stared unseeingly at the blankets spread over the officer’s legs, slipped down to reveal the bandages. Tiny stains had seeped through, dark blotches against dirty white.

“Y’ not from Virginia.” Eddie replied after a while.

His nails scratched at his shabby pants, picking at the threads. He hadn’t much else to say.

Andrew hummed and this time it was a laugh. Mockery tainted his tune, each cough of his chest smug where he chuckled.

“West Virginia is a Union state.” He recited. “And I am sworn to protect our Union.”

Artfully avoiding the question. Considering the farmer already knew where he hailed from, the dodge shouldn’t cause such an insult.

Yet insult it did, Eddie’s fists clenching against his thighs. His teeth flashed in the cold sunlight where he snarled.

“Well, you’re eatin’ grits thanks t’ your _Union_.” He hissed. “Your boys burned m’ crops.”

Forgetting the harsh situation he’d created, his anger bubbled towards boiling point.

This would be where Andrew usually reached out, took his cheeks under his palms, and shushed away his wrath. The touch of a saint, his fingers always able to coax that sin back down.

In the cold daylight of the cabin, Andrew merely sent a tired glance. His eyes quickly returned to gazing into space, his lip twitching.

“We are enemies, I suppose.” He muttered.

Resignation pulled at his words, a pathetic attempt to smooth over the conversation. To justify without effort and step away from the truth.

Eddie couldn’t abide it. Instead of calming him, his love drove him over the edge.

The stool clattered to the floor where he stood suddenly, the bed creaking as he loomed over the officer. Those blond locks turned a dark grey under the farmer’s menacing shadow, his teeth bared like a wild animal. His reply was a roar where it ripped from him and left spit flecks across Andrew’s cheek.

“I’m ain’t some Confederate!” Eddie snarled. “Y’ think they weren’t here first? They beat me harder than you ever could!”

A strange insult, though the irony wasn’t appreciated. The officer’s eyes were wide, pinned down by a wrathful stranger whose reaction he failed to understand.

The fat, angry tears that bubbled over the famer’s cheeks only confused the situation further.

“I hate their fuckin’ Confederacy! And I _hate_ y’ fuckin’ Union!” Eddie cried, his voice falling into heaving sobs. “I hate every man that comes by here, tryin’ get me t’ kill f’ someone else’s cause!”

Trembling knees buckled. He collapsed to the floor, shaking hands gripping the bedframe. The wood rattled and he let his forehead fall against the mattress. His gasps were short and shallow, as if he were the one wounded.

“It’s not fair…” He hissed against the sheets.

He wasn’t talking about the war.

It didn’t seem to matter what he did, where he ran or where he hid. He’d be found and the clock would start ticking. Down, down, down until the minutes became seconds. He’d never made any mistakes, he realised.

Everything he did was a mistake. All roads led to here.

The officer laid on his bed settled himself. He allowed his body to relax, convinced his company wouldn’t erupt in rage again. It was difficult to watch; a tall, violent man brought to his knees, weeping softly against the sheets.

“You’re a strange man, Eddie...” Andrew whispered.

His heart wasn’t in the insult. And he had no rebuttal, eyes drifting to the windowpane again. What was there to say; his righteous cause wouldn’t bring the farmer’s corn back from the flames.

They sat in cold silence, listening to the windchime’s rattle and Eddie’s muffled sobs.

Darkness blotted out the winter sun.

As Eddie doused the lamps, he thought about holding his palm over the flames. There were enough scars across his hands, why not another?

He licked his fingers and pinched them out instead.

The bedroom flickered into darkness. Andrew had fallen asleep again.

He still trembled. Violently, his breathing suddenly moving from laboured to erratic. In a moment, Eddie was at his side, grabbing the cloth. He squeezed cool water over the man’s forehead and dabbed it away. His shushing was desperate and interrupted by whimpers.

He felt the officer’s forehead. Clammy skin burned against his fingers, Andrew’s wound overtaking him as he groaned in his sleep. He was muttering incoherently, a fever dream making him twist and turn.

Terrified of the damage he might do, Eddie bent over the man and pressed him against the mattress. Face inches from his love’s, those sweat-soaked features contorted in pain, the farmer could hear the whimpered words falling from cracked lips.

“Une église…” Andrew murmured, “I- Wait-!”

He inhaled sharply. The sound woke him up.

His eyes cracked open, blearily searching the face hovering above him. Heavy curls, strong nose, and slight stubble.

He smiled. Shakily, a grin overwhelmed by fever.

“Eddie…” He murmured, as if repeating a mantra.

Wide eyes stared down at him, Eddie’s chest hitching in the briefest elation. Heart soaring high in the moment of recognition, his own name never sounding so immaculate as when Andrew whispered it.

Reality would always disappoint. Realisation dawned and dragged the farmer’s chest down with it. His heart hit the ground with a thud as he released a miserable sigh.

He’d told the man his name earlier, hadn’t he. Those blue eyes weren’t filled with beautiful familiarity; they were unfocused and pained. Delirium was making Andrew smile.

“Thank you…” The officer croaked.

For what, his company didn’t know.

Another cold cloth tended to his forehead. A cup of water was brought to his lips, Eddie cradling his patient’s head as he forced him to drink. When a weak hand tried to push him away, the farmer gritted his teeth. He continued, ignoring every urge to obey.

“Two more cupfuls.” He demanded.

It came out weak. He was no leader of men, not like his love was.

Brute strength saw him through. Andrew couldn’t fight him in his current state and relented, whimpering uncomfortably as he was forced to swallow.

When he’d finished, he was laid back down by Eddie’s hand. Those fingers stroked his blond hair, feeling his tremors begin to fade. His eyes soon closed again, and the farmer let out the breath he’d been holding.

When he withdrew his touch, his hand was damp.

Another morning broke. Another bowl of gruel was presented.

Andrew’s chewing was slow, each movement of his jaw laboured. The bags under his eyes grew deeper by the minute, his skin pale and clammy. He looked like he had on the Jersey. His unfocused gaze drifted over the spoon, the washbasin, the man who tended so religiously to him.

“You woke me from a terrible dream...” He muttered.

His lip twitched. He smiled and this time, he was himself. He met Eddie’s eye and his gratitude was clear.

In the farmer’s hand, the plate rattled softly. He quelled his trembling and nodded, not trusting his voice. He understood why his love had said thank you.

They continued with the meal. It took twice as long today, every mouthful sliding down with great effort.

Placing the plate against the floor, Eddie poured out another cup of whisky. The jug whistled as he shook it. It was empty.

The farmer bit his lip and forced down his choking pain. He feared revealing the loss of their only painkiller, hastily tucking the guilty jug under the bed. He brought the drink to Andrew’s lips and helped him swallow it down greedily. The last of the whisky.

The next cupful was water. The blond noticed, frowning at the new taste.

Eddie averted his eyes and grasped blindly for a distraction.

“You was speakin’ French.” He mumbled. “Durin’ y’ fever.”

Coughing as the empty cup retreated, water splashing his chin, Andrew arched an eyebrow. He didn’t seem to believe it. It took far longer than it should for his hacking to cease.

“I’ve always wanted to learn French…” He croaked eventually.

He sounded terribly sad. Mourning a loss fast approaching.

“I could teach you.” Eddie mumbled, desperate to fill the silence.

He was fixed with a sharp look. “ _You_ speak French?” Andrew huffed. He coughed again, leaving flecks of blood on his chest.

The farmer averted his eyes miserably. He supposed he deserved that. What defence did he have, he was far from the scholarly type. It stung deeply.

“I’m sorry.” The captain whispered. “That was cruel of me.”

Still as smart as ever, he sought the same distraction. Conversation would help pass the agonising seconds.

“Think you could-” Another hacking fit, this one bringing Eddie to his feet. Andrew continued on regardless. “-recite some to me?”

Hovering above him, attempting to make his patient comfortable, the farmer froze. Those pale blue eyes flashed vulnerably, so distant from the violent rage in them yesterday. The captain felt his brow falter, deepening in concern.

Eddie gazed at him longingly. It was as if Andrew had presented him with a great honour, rather than a simple request.

“A’ course.” The farmer whispered as he withdrew. “Whatever y’ need.”

When he ducked into the other room, claiming he needed to fetch more water, the officer caught him wiping his eyes.

Uncle Tom’s Cabin had been burned and his bible had been lost somewhere in the fray. There were no books left to read from.

But they’d been in English, so it didn’t matter. Eddie would do as he’d been told. He picked up his stool, planted himself down, and cast his mind back a thousand years ago.

There was a book of French in an Andover bedroom. There were foreign insults called across a smoky battlefield. Then there was poetry, recited on this very spot. In a different cabin, smaller and colder, but close enough.

The farmer recited the poems he remembered. His accent caught on the words.

It was worth it to see Andrew chuckle. His eyes crinkled in happiness for a moment.

Andrew fell asleep that evening to the song of Frère Jacques. It lulled him peacefully away, though his trembling returned worse than before. Despite the sweat on his brow and pained whistle to his breaths, he appeared almost serene.

Eddie stopped singing. His voice faded and he stood, watching his love rest. Then, certain he was unconscious, the farmer got down on his knees.

At some point, he had to address his relationship with the eternal man upstairs.

A thousand different words for Christian had arisen over his lifetime and only a handful he’d ever encountered beyond a fleeting mention. (Normally in a disparaging tone.) He didn’t care for a single one.

He wasn’t an atheist; he’d never heard the word.

His belief in God was concrete. It had to be, considering he was a hundred-and-seventy-two years of age and hadn’t gone grey.

No, it wasn’t his belief; it was his faith.

Eddie stopped worshipping God the day one of His preachers killed Andrew Haldane.

But that didn’t matter. He wasn’t looking for forgiveness or passage into Heaven.

Interweaving his fingers, the farmer rested them against the bed. His forehead lent against his thumbs. His chest shook as he inhaled.

“Our father, who art in Heaven,” His features twisted, unhappy by how easily he remembered, “Hallowed be thy name.”

His mumbling hitched where he’d swallow, forcing down hunger and thirst and a dryness he didn’t want to place. When his hands trembled, he merely tightened his fingers. He pushed through the Lord’s prayer, hoping the curtesy might do him some good. Buy him some favour with the bastard deity he’d convinced himself he could defeat.

There was only one man who could do that, and it wasn’t Eddie.

“Please,” The farmer whispered, the sound cracking around his pleas, “Please, help him get better.”

He sniffed and cleared his throat.

“Just- Just gimme more time-” He begged, “Please, let me make this right. I’ll do anythin’, just- Just…”

Not like this. _Not by his hand._

Eddie found himself interrupted, his Amen dying on his tongue. A gasp rattled his chest, eyes flashing open as he felt a touch to his hair. Weak fingers slid into his curls, stroking them gently. He wondered if an angel had laid a hand on him, sympathetic to his pleading. It sure felt like that.

Slowly, the farmer raised his head. He found hooded eyes, tired but determined to look his way.

Andrew wasn’t smiling, the strain too great an effort. But his gaze was kind, his bland expression born from exhaustion rather than apathy. The soft motions of his fingers continued, petting the curls he could reach.

Eddie rose up on his knees, elbows against the mattress. He stared longingly at those handsome features, exactly as he loved them, even with hollow cheeks and raspy breathing.

He reached out to caress the man’s cheek before thinking better of it. The skin under his fingertips was hot, sweaty where he brushed against it. A sharp inhale punctuated the retreat of his touch, drawing his hand back in embarrassment and regret.

A grip around his knuckles begged him to stay. Andrew held his hand, clutching it tightly, drawing it back to his jaw.

“Please…” He whispered, voice barely there.

Eddie blinked. Tears rolled over his cheeks.

Both his hands came to his love’s cheeks, soothing lovingly over his skin. He caressed his dying captain, crying without a sound. Andrew’s eyes slipped closed and he squeezed the knuckles under his grip. The pressure was weak.

It was enough. This wasn’t the first time.

“I’m so sorry.” Eddie rasped.

The list of his mistakes stretched on forever. If he could’ve seen the future, he would’ve done things differently.

Starting with the tools on that roof, perhaps. Definitely with that pastor. He would have let the man go and dug two graves on that hillside. Laid down beside his first love, gazed up at the sky, and smiled as he placed that pistol under his chin.

 _‘If’_ was not reality.

Under his hands, Andrew had fallen asleep again.

Eddie stayed by his side, resting his head against the mattress as a loyal guard dog should. He held his captain’s hand and slept at his feet.

_Jusqu’à la mort nous espérons toujours._ That had been a favourite line of Andrew the Fourth.

Eddie remembered it well. He’d kept it to himself.

When he blinked awake, the farmer found his neck aching. His fingers came to his throat, checking for a phantom noose. No rope met his hand and he released a sigh of relief.

He glanced towards the window, woken by the light. Through the still intact glass, he glimpsed a swirling whiteness.

It was snowing. Joy swelled his heart at the sight.

“Andrew,” He breathed wistfully, “Look.”

The hand under his felt cold. Eddie squeezed, desperate to get the man’s attention. No reply came and he felt that joy falter. He turned towards his love, the hope in his eyes dimming.

He found Andrew resting peacefully. His features were unburdened by pain, his chest no longer rattling where he struggled to breathe. His fever was gone and that awful heat had evaporated. His blond hair shone grey in the white light.

He’d missed the snow a second time.

In 1863, Captain Andrew Haldane succumbed to a gunshot wound in West Virginia. He had been sent to secure a road that led east, running through some border county. Greenbrier, the place was called.

He’d been excited to go. He’d never been there before.

Eddie wept at his bedside. He couldn’t recall how long, but it didn’t matter.

He left only to retrieve his shotgun from the other room. He hated releasing Andrew’s hand and he quickly returned his grip to those cold fingers. Sat on the floor, weapon between his knees, the farmer tucked the muzzle under his chin.

Cold metal pressed against his throat. He closed his eyes. Let this time be the one.

He pulled the trigger. The hammer snapped.

The shot didn’t fire.

Turning his tearful eyes upwards, boring through his creaking ceiling, Eddie shook his head in disgust. “I hate you.” He murmured.

Of the two immortal beings listening, who he addressed was unclear.

He buried Andrew’s men under his scorched corn crop, side by side with their enemies. Blue, blue, grey, blue, grey. All of them laid neatly in a long, shallow grave, with unnamed crosses above their heads. Poor men all looked the same in death. Only rich men had trinkets to identify themselves with.

He buried Andrew under the ruins of their stable, once he swept away the rubble. Though he didn’t know how to write, he’d carved the man’s name before. On a polished wooden crossed, taken from his apple trees, he engraved that name again.

‘Andrew Allison Haldane’. He took his time with it.

He patted the soil down neatly. It had to be perfectly flat, something inside him cried. As if that could absolve him of his apathy, of his wrath, of that single moment he’d turned his gun on Andrew.

It had been a while since he’d buried his love. It hadn’t gotten easier.

The next morning, Eddie stood before his cabin and watched it burn.

He set the walls ablaze, waiting on the road as the porch fell away. His whisky jug and sturdy table, his bedframe and pile of furs; all went up in flames. Smoke rose in a dark plume towards the Heavens. (He hoped God choked.)

Virginia, West Virginia, what did it matter. Greenbrier held nothing but misery and it had him loathing these hillsides. Another state crossed off the list.

With a stolen canteen, a shotgun, a revolver down the back of his pants, and an old pocket watch, Eddie turned away. He marched north.

This was a rich man’s war, but a poor man’s fight. That was how it worked, just like it always did. On both sides.

Good thing Eddie Jones knew how to fight. He told the recruiter such.

When asked about his canteen, he said he stole it from a Confederate soldier he killed after they burned his farm. Nothing more was necessary, him being a tall man. A stone-faced and short-worded man, with a hunger in his eyes and no complaints on his lips. What a perfect soldier he made.

He couldn’t join the Tenth West Virginia Infantry Regiment; they weren’t around and he didn’t get a choice.

The Seventh would have to do.

The dark blue jacket they gave him was wool. Itchy, uncomfortable, and nothing like the uniforms he’d once known. The revolver Eddie hid down the back of his pants was little comfort, compared to the memory of Andrew’s hands on his shoulders. The stupid kepi they forced on his head flattened his curls awfully.

He looked a Goddamn fool.

Spotsylvania Court House. A crossroads.

The worst place in the entire world.

Eddie realised that might not be fair to say. He hadn’t seen much of the world, never having stepped foot outside his homeland. The wonders across the waves crossed his mind fleetingly. There was all kinds of beauty and terror, stretching over the lands, seas, and skies.

He might never see any of them. From disinterest or death, he honestly couldn’t say.

It was May 12th, 1964.

Death wished to make his acquaintance today.

Through the mist, in the dark of early dawn, Eddie fixed his kepi and started towards the enemy trench. The rain had stopped briefly. It left puddles and mud in its wake, his comrades slipping as they ran for their destination. Their rousing yells were dampened by pants for air.

They met gunfire. The Confederate trench erupted. The artillery that had pounded the ground flat has done nothing to scatter them.

A shot grazed Eddie’s cheek, breaking open a long-healed scar. He snarled at the feeling, the sound morphing into a roaring scream as he charged towards the enemy. His boots stomped against the disintegrating earth, picking up the pace. His destination awaited and his long legs sped him towards it. Striding far, far ahead of his comrades, eager to meet death on the other side.

There was something surreal, rushing across another battlefield. They were all like this, he thought.

All like this. _None like this._

He fired his rifle, saw it hit his target. He slipped in the mud and stumbled, a shot cutting through his curls. Never meeting flesh, his stumble taking him out of harm’s way.

That only made him _angrier_.

His comrades swelled around him, catching up to the suicidal man leading their charge. Several were cut down for their effort, uncursed by immortality and left crying out for help. They received none.

The onslaught didn’t slow, the wave of soldiers carrying over the parapet. Bodies slid under their boots, Eddie tripping again and tumbling into the trench. He skidded on his ass, taking an enemy out with his weight. They tumbled into a pile of limbs, guns, and fabric.

A red and blue flag floated in the murky water. The Confederate colour-bearer who’d dropped it wiped his eyes, blinded by the filth where he’d been knocked into the mud.

Eddie slammed his rifle butt into the man’s face before he could get back up. Then he hit the man again. Then again. The groaning at his feet stopped and his enemy gurgled, face sinking beneath the mud.

That soaked flag remained. There’d be many men coming for it. It was nothing but trouble.

Eddie snatched up the enemy’s treasure, ripping it from its pole. The fabric slapped messily as he tied it around his chest, a strange bandolier. It would make a terrible gift.

He franticly began reloading his rifle.

That was in the morning, under a rising sun unseen through the clouds.

Few men had the advantage of a revolver that could fire six times without reloading. Single shot weapons were the cheapest. So single shot rifles were what they were given.

Eddie didn’t bother reloading much after that. Not when the enemy came at him with their rifle butts, their bayonets, their fists. They were furious when they saw their torn flag around his chest, the disrespect he bore, and charged him with vicious hatred.

The farmer welcomed them with open arms. Let the man who killed him be blessed with every grace the Lord could give.

He grabbed one by the hair and slammed him against his knee. He heard bone crunch. The rain started up again, the Lord parting the clouds to spit on the rats clawing at each other beneath. Killing each other over fabric and dirt. Gunfire resumed and it paled to the artillery whistling overhead.

Every shot missed him.

Earth exploded, wet and heavy and sending torn flesh up into the air. Another man met Eddie’s fists, beaten against a splintered tree stump until he spluttered his last. The farmer’s uniform had soaked itself black, mud and blood and all manner of filth on his skin. The rattle of his canteen kept him in step, beating the rhythm of this dance, stomping over the corpses that began to pile.

Throw them over the parapet. They were getting in the way.

Somewhere in the carnage, Eddie had to laugh. He was punched hard in the face for it, assumed to be mocking his enemy. He fell on his back.

Hands wrapped around his throat, cutting off his air as they choked him. In the water that flooded the trench, he was pushed down into the depths. The mud filled his nose and he screamed. A deep, dark sea flashed behind his eyes, shut against the stinging pain. He was drowning again.

Nothing scared him like the ocean.

His assailant took one hand off his neck, clawing at the knot of the flag. Desperate to get it back, fatally so.

The loosened grip let Eddie suck in a tiny breath, pulling him from the sea that consumed his mind. From the back of his pants, he tugged a stolen revolver. The weapon of a Union captain. He stabbed it under his assailant’s chin and pulled the trigger.

Red mud smeared over his face, blinding Eddie as he heaved himself up, scrubbing at his eyes. He coughed and wretched, vomiting from the stench of gore across his chest. Up came dirty water and the grits of his breakfast. He tasted dirt and shook the flesh from his hair. His hacking turned to a roar as another man dived on him, desperate to reclaim that flag.

He didn’t waste a shot this time. It wouldn’t be proper, then the pistol’s handle worked well enough. He could smash in his enemy’s skull with it, until the eyes popped.

A gunshot fired, ripping through the soldier he was beating to death. It was meant for Eddie. It missed, as always.

His bad luck was endless.

Fiery blue eyes jerked towards his attacker. They locked gazes amongst a backdrop of piled bodies, several men high. Limbs twitched at the base of the stacks, clawing desperately to be released from their crushing prisons. The wounded reached for their salvation and found no comrade to pull them free.

Their comrades were busy.

Shoving his hand down, Eddie clawed in the mud for a stronger weapon. His fingers slid over his last victim’s guts, rolling him away to dig beneath the water. When his hand came back, it clutched that splintered flagpole.

The young man he looked towards was desperately reloading his rifle, grip slipping uselessly in the rain. With the filth that stained them both, his uniform was no longer grey. He was crying, distraught that he’d accidently shot his comrade.

A mercy killing, truly, better than the beating. He should wipe that expression away.

Or Eddie would do it for him.

Flipping the flagpole in his grip, the farmer swung the thing back and charged. He slammed it across the boy’s face and felt that perfect snap.

The downpour continued, soaking his curls. His hat had long been lost and his hair had turned black in the fog. The Heavens had to remain open, eating up the battlefield below with greedy slurps. A feast was being served.

Eddie used his boot to kick a heap of bone and skin out of his way. He stumbled in the mud and fell to the floor again. His hand went through a corpse’s chest cavity.

Fingers pulled back, dark red and pink with fat, the farmer choked up a strange sound. A snarl and a sob, rolled into one.

He slapped the gore from his hand and scooped that body up. In a moment of reprieve, he threw the corpse out of the ditch to join the pile. He couldn’t tell what uniform it wore.

The artillery cracked. The gunfire lulled. The rain didn’t stop.

Screams echoed down the trench. Eddie turned towards them and tightened his grip on that flagpole. He could see them, his designated enemy. They were heading his way. With a deep breath, he choked out another roar. It splintered in his throat. He ran through the mud, towards whoever awaited in the fog.

He’d beat them to death with his canteen if he had to.

The Bloody Angle, they called it. The worst place in the world.

After twenty-four hours, ripping each other to pieces over a muddy trench, the fighting stopped. Another dawn broke and the Confederates retreated to a new defensive line. They must’ve been exhausted.

In the daybreak, Eddie could look around. The rain had eased to a gentle patter.

He stood in a ditch, knee deep in water. It was black with blood and he couldn’t see his feet. They hadn’t dug it very deep, the trench, yet the walls were high. The heaped bodies, bloated in the weather, had swelled the defences. Canteens floated in the mud, little metal boats bobbing in the rain.

Eddie swallowed. He wretched at the smell but only a dry heave came up. A shaky hand clutched his curls.

He realised he was alone. Him and the dead, his closest friends. The men he envied most in the world.

Splashing footfalls approached. The reinforcements, bringing up the rear, found a farmer sitting in the water. It soaked up his thighs and almost to his waist, but he didn’t seem to care. A Confederate flag was wrapped around his chest and a broken flagpole standing upright in the mud.

He was sipping from his canteen.

The Bloody Angle, they called it.

That’s what they called it. That’s what they called it.

Besieging Petersburg was nothing like besieging Boston. They weren’t really sieging shit.

They were also in trenches, not tents. Eddie hoped never to be sat in the dirt like this again, though at least it wasn’t raining. Quiet as the grave, having sharpened his bayonet enough it could cut diamond. He kept to himself in this motley regiment of many a state’s children. (They were all boys to him, since he was their sergeant now. Didn’t matter if their beards said otherwise.)

“My daddy heard a man speak ‘bout abolition, back in ’35.” One soldier was regaling, “He brought his speeches home with him.”

His voice was a deep drawl Eddie couldn’t place. Somewhere in the south he might have been before, a long time ago.

He disliked this man and that wasn’t fair. It was for a single, pathetic reason.

Because this tale had been recounted before, and it never failed to bring a pained crease to the farmer’s eyes. When the topic of why a southern man was wearing blue arose, this soldier always had the most inspiring story.

“I grew up on that man’s sermons.” He was explaining, “I ain’t never thought no different.”

Andrew Haldane the Fifth had touched more hearts than he could ever know. Eddie hated hearing it.

He was glad when the conversation moved along.

“You hear the story Jackson was telling last night?” One soldier was asking. “How some maniac used a rebel flag to choke an entire company to death?”

“Y’ think you can strangle that many men?” The southern man huffed. “No, it was tied 'round his chest. He skewered ‘em on the flagpole.”

“Didn’t he get a medal for that?” Came someone’s reply.

“No, that was some other private.” The first soldier said. “He shot an officer or something, up on the Mule Shoe.”

He was inspecting his empty canteen as he spoke, casually as ever. He shook it and found it dry.

“Jackson said his buddy was at the Bloody Angle.” He muttered. “Said he saw a Union boy ripping into ‘em like he was possessed by the Devil. And when it was done, they found him sitting with that flag. Just… _sitting_ , amongst all those bodies.”

Sheathing his bayonet, Eddie stood up. His boots crunched in the dry dirt, drawing him down the trench. Whatever pain stirred his gut, he wouldn’t acknowledge it. (It felt different to the talk about Andrew.)

His men parted obediently as he marched by. He made sure not to move hastily, never reveal his discomfort from beneath the shadow of his cap as he passed.

“Weren’t you at Spotsylvania, sergeant?” That soldier asked. It echoed down the trench, directed his way.

Eddie stopped. With his back to them, he still felt every pair of eyes on him. Their voices faded but their gazes remained, boring holes through his chest. He hoped they punctured.

Glancing over the dry ground, tracing the cracks, the farmer shook his head.

“No.” He replied. “I wasn’t.”

The war ended.

In celebration, Eddie tossed his canteen on the fire. It popped and melted away.

They marched through Washington in their Grand Review. And after they were done with that pointless exercise, the regiment was disbanded in Kentucky.

It left Eddie homeless, in a sense. A fact he relished.

He’d do as Andrew Haldane always had; create a new home, somewhere far from his birthplace. Somewhere secluded and warm, where loving arms could hold him close and kiss away his worries. Where wars were distant and had to be invited over the threshold.

Except Eddie didn’t want that anymore.

He never wanted to be close to Andrew – or any other person, if he could help it – ever again.

Someone told him you could do that, live a free and lonely life, where nobody could find you. If you headed the right way, of course.

On his way out west, far away from Greenbrier County, Eddie moved to only one marching tune. If he wasn’t whistling or humming, passers-by might even catch him singing.

“ _We’ll all go down t’ Dixie, away, away~!_ ”

Out in the wild, wild west, you could be a new man.

When they asked his name and where he was from, he replied; “Eddie Jones, from West Virginia.”

A convenient reply, as a state that knew no real allegiance in the past five years. The war was fresh and unforgotten, a man’s leanings remained deeply important. West Virginia was a safe bet.

It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t the truth either.

The name was satisfactory, the origin less so. Complicated didn’t cover it.

Eddie had been born in what he thought to be Virginia. Turned out, after some adjustment of state lines over a century ago, he’d actually been born in Pennsylvania.

Was he from there then? Or the state he’d been raised in?

Was he from Massachusetts, where he’d lived and loved twice? Was he from Andover there or Boston? Was he actually from Ulster, the mystery family cradle he’d never known? Was he from Greenbrier, a cabin in the hills where he’d rotted for decades?

That was in West Virginia. Except it had been just Virginia when he’d lived there, for the most part.

It was hard to understand the pride men felt for their homes when Eddie knew none.

His home had been Andrew. Wherever he was, wherever he went. But he couldn’t say that to a stranger, so he claimed West Virginia and left it that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Confederate equipment was so piss-poor that things like canteens were often taken and used by both sides.  
> \- Nobody understood germs yet and doctors at the time would not only stick their fingers in patients, they would then move onto the next patient without cleaning their hands.  
> \- The poetry is from André Chénier, an 18th century French poet. Andrew's favourite line translates to "Until death, we still hope."  
> \- The Battle of Spotsylvania Court House was the third worst battle of the US Civil War. The Bloody Angle, a 200 yard stretch of trench, saw the worst fighting, with 14,000 casualties over an 18 hour period of combat.  
> \- Flags were stupidly important on old battlefields and a Union soldier (George W. Harris) actually did receive a Medal of Honour for killing two enemy soldiers who tried to take back a Confederate flag from him.


End file.
